Wheatley Warm Ups
by vargrimar
Summary: A little project from my writeblog on tumblr: drabbles and ficlets that star everyone's favorite dork. All are written from submitted prompts. Lots of Chelley abound with unabashed fluff. Most involve Nightingale!verse's humanised Wheatley, but a some don't. Rated M for adult situations.
1. Prompt 000

**Prompt 000: "Imagine Wheatley going to the beach and getting sand in his everything."**

"I'm sorry, I really am, truly, but how can you _enjoy_ this? I mean, seriously, it's everywhere! Absolutely everywhere! How am I supposed to get it off?"

Chell sighs and jerks her head toward the rolling waves. The ocean breathes and the water comes sweeping in, engulfing her toes in cloud-white foam.

Wheatley is not impressed. Skinny and pale and shoulders already starting blush with sunburn, he folds his lanky arms below his ribs and glares at the sea with a set jaw, defiant.

"No," he says. "No. No way. I am _not_ going in there. Not happening. Zero chance. Zero. I'll be fine right here where there's no water, thanks."

She finds it hard to take his pouting seriously when he's covered in sand. He tripped over a bucket and landed face first on the beach. Even his glasses are coated in a thin, white film. His swim trunks look like they suffered a particularly severe sandstorm.

"How long are we going to be here again?" he asks. He's taken off his glasses and he's trying to wipe off the tiny grains with the inside leg of his shorts. "Because there are lots of other things we could be doing than sitting here. Like sightseeing! Plenty of sights to see. Plenty of them. We've already seen this one now, haven't we? Why not go see the others?"

Chell gets up, takes his glasses from his hands, and places them safely on her beach towel.

"Hey, hey, what's that for? I need those! Oi, what're you—"

Wheatley's being thrown, flailing, into the ocean.

She wades out behind him and she thinks she can hear him garbling, "Crazy lady what are you _doing_ I could _die_ out here," but he keeps dipping under the waves and water fills his mouth.

Chell takes his arm and pulls him to his feet. The waves crest at his bellybutton.

"Oh," says Wheatley. "Right. Well, guess I'm clean now. Solves that, then."

She cradles her face with her palm and silently laughs.


	2. Prompt 001

**Prompt 001: "How was the first time Wheatley had to sleep?"**

"Wait, wait. Hang on a minute. Let me get this straight. You mean you just… lie there—and wait to turn off? There's no button or anything? Just waiting? You can't be serious. Now, really, how is that good design? Seems sort of, you know, wasteful, waiting like that."

Wheatley is sitting in the middle of the bed, legs bowed out, sheets bunched beneath, staring absently at his hands. He's still getting used to the idea of hands. Well, and of appendages in general, honestly.

Chell picks up her pen again and scribbles on the notepad in her lap. "Yes, you wait," she writes, like that's supposed to explain everything.

"I don't like it," says Wheatley. "And this is required every night? You're sure?"

She underlines the _yes_ on the page twice.

Wheatley flops down on his back, head upon the pillow. His too-short plaid pajamas ride up his skinny body and he folds his arms behind his head.

"But it's so unnecessary," he argues. "I mean, come on, I could just reboot or plug into a maintenance port before and it would be all done in two minutes, five at the most. Maybe six. Okay, no, six minutes. Definitely six. But this is supposed to take _hours_? God's sake, how do you lot ever get anything done?"

He hears her sigh; a short, punctuated puff of air. The weight lifts off the edge of the mattress and he glances down his long nose to see her pacing toward the light switch.

"What're you doing?"

She flips it. Darkness shrouds the bedroom and Wheatley can see nothing but black. Before he can shout, the heat of her fingers finds his face and the soft pads cross his eyelids, gently pushing them closed.

"I don't understand," says Wheatley. "You wait like this?"

Her thumb strokes upward along his cheek, a yes.

"That just seems so bor—" He pauses as warm weight sinks in beside him. "Bor… boring. Sorry, a-are you going to wait with me? Um, not that that's bad or anything, mind. Not at all. I just don't want you to, you know, get bored. Lying here. With me. Doing nothing."

Wheatley feels her arm move. A fingertip sketches an upward line along his jaw, another affirmative.

"All right," he says. "All right, fine, you win. But I warned you! And don't say I didn't, because I did. Warn you. Just now. So you can't spring this on me later."

The rhythm of her even breaths lulls him, and they both wait in silence.


	3. Prompt 002

**Prompt 002: "How about Wheatley trying a new food and, you know sometimes you'll bite something and get that flavor shock up the sides of your jaw? Yeah, he has to deal with that and thinks his mouth is short-circuiting."**

"This hurts. Oh, this _really_ hurts. I—I don't know how you deal with this. Is this something that happens to everyone?"

Wheatley is curled up in a heap of lanky limbs on the kitchen floor, swathed in an Aperture orange jumpsuit, arms crossed over his stomach. It feels like something is gnawing away at his insides, something he's never felt during the time he inhabited a personality core, and he desperately wishes it would stop.

Chell is ignoring him, tending to the sizzling something-or-other on the stove. It has a thick, savory smell, and Wheatley's mouth keeps filling with fluid that he has to swallow down.

"Are you listening? Because this is important. I think I'm dying here. Really, I'm in a _lot_ of pain. And it does not feel pleasant, in case you were wondering. Actually, come to think of it, I don't think dying is meant to feel pleasant. I mean, not much incentive to keep at it, is there? If dying feels better than living. Probably supposed to hurt."

Chell kneels down beside him, notepad in hand. "You are not dying," she writes. "You have to eat to get energy." Her mouth is curved in this _I can't believe I brought this drama queen back with me _smirk.

"No energy?" Wheatley lets a loud exhale escape his nose. "Well, I suppose humans have to get energy from somewhere. Being not plugged in and all. Or having batteries."

He watches her with his cheek pressed against the cool floor as she strides across the kitchen. He's quite fascinated with her legs.

Chell brings two plates to the small table tucked against the wall, one for each side, and then returns to the stove. After flipping one of the dials, she lifts the pan with one mittened hand and takes it with her. She glances over her shoulder and motions for him to join her.

In spite of the deadly pain roiling in his belly, Wheatley clumsily lifts himself off the floor and stumbles to one of the chairs. Chell dishes out out a serving of eggs and bacon onto his plate with a spatula. As she's sliding the rest onto hers, Wheatley manages to work his new fingers well enough to pick up a piece of bacon and stuff it into his mouth.

It's immediate: saliva wells up and there's a sudden heady burst of flavor, something other than air, like someone's slugged him in the jaw. Electricity seems to web up the sides of his mouth and then he's spitting it up, shouting, "Oh god, _oh god_, this doesn't have water, does it? I can't have water, I'll short out, I'll—"

And then he's being pressed into her shirt, muffled, with her hand gently gripping the back of his head.

"Mmph—what—what are you doing, I'm dying!"

She lets go and he's allowed to breathe. Gulping down air, heart pumping liquid panic, Wheatley wraps his arms around himself and small whimpering noises force themselves out of his throat.

Chell pats his shoulder and points to his previous statement on the notepad: "You're not dying." And then she writes, "Can't short out. Not a robot."

"Are you sure? Absolutely positive? Because I'm trusting you here. You've got all the human experience between the two of us."

"Eat," she writes. "You'll feel better."

"All right," he says, trying to pick up another piece of bacon. "But if I short out, I'll be saying _I told you so_. Well, considering you can reboot me. If that's possible. But if not, then just imagine I said _I told you so_."

Wheatley eats, feels better, and definitely does not short out.


	4. Prompt 003

**Prompt 003: "Wheatley discovers that he has a favorite food."**

Wheatley has come to terms with the fact that he has to consume food several times a day to keep his body going. It's just another form of maintenance, he thinks. Nothing too terrible. And really, it's not a particularly difficult thing to accept. Food tastes tremendous.

It's like there was a thick film over everything when he was a personality core. Emotions and sensations were simulated, and therefore limited. This, on the other hand, is the real deal. Film peeled off, flayed open, everything amplified one thousand fold.

"Hey, I—oh, sorry. Didn't see the book. I know you're probably busy and I don't mean to bother you or anything, but, quick question: Is it lunchtime yet?"

Wheatley has also developed a habit of constantly asking Chell about mealtimes. He can't help it, though. She's an excellent cook. And he should know: they've gotten dinner from other places a few times. He's quite certain no one else's food compares to Chell's.

She pauses, glancing up from the pages, and gives him a pointed look. Brow slightly raised, mouth pinched at the corners, eyes narrowed.

It's a rather obvious _no_.

"Oh," says Wheatley. He rubs the back of his neck and leans in closer to her on the couch. "Well, um, could we start early then? It's about eleven-thirty. Almost noon. Or that's what the clock says. It might be a bit off. But my stomach's starting to make those weird noises, and it'll probably start to hurt soon. So, if we could just… have it now, that would be amazing."

Chell puts down her book, and with a heavy sigh, she gets up and pads across the den to the kitchen. Wheatley bounds off the sofa with a grin and trails along right behind her.

Popping the fridge open, she reaches in and pulls out a small plastic box filled with round, bright red berries about the size of a quarter. He hovers over her shoulder as she takes it to the sink, opens it, and begins to rinse each individual berry under the running faucet. Each has a small green tuft of leaves at its top.

After she's finished, she picks one up between her thumb and forefinger, holding the tuft, and brings it up to his lips.

The smell is—oh—_divine_. Sweet, somewhat earthy; enough to make his mouth water. Tentatively, he opens up and bites down on the offered berry.

It's _so_ much sweeter than it smells. Wheatley's tongue feels like he's dipped it in a vat of sugar. The cool juice is running down his lip and chin and he leans in and cups her hand to take another bite because _wow_, this tastes incredible!

"God, why didn't you let me try these before?" asks Wheatley, tongue darting out to lick up the liquid left behind. He's still holding onto her hand, thin fingers enveloping hers. "Have you been keeping them from me? Because if you have, I _definitely_ see why. Wow. They're just—I don't even know where to start."

Chell looks amused. She reaches for the counter with her free hand to procure another strawberry from the batch.

"I hope you know that box is going to be gone in a few minutes," says Wheatley.

She holds another out for him.

"Seriously, I'm not joking."

He sinks his teeth in, and true to his word, he devours the whole box.


	5. Prompt 004

**Prompt 004: "Wheatley gets an itch on his back that he can't reach. Needs Chell to scratch it."**

There's a lot of stimuli-and-response that happens to a human body. Wheatley has noticed that he tends to do certain things when he's nervous, upset, or happy. Sometimes it's subconscious and he reacts without thinking; other times, it's compulsion that drives him.

In this instance, it's the latter.

Some aspects of being human were programmed into his memory from when he was a core, too. He did take care of humans, after all. He had to know some of the basics. It was more of a glossing over, if he's honest. The nitty gritty of what actually happens wasn't very interesting to him.

Itching, though, is not a foreign concept.

Wheatley is sitting cross-legged on the sofa, trying his very best to touch the center of his back. Unfortunately for him, his lanky arms just aren't long enough. Or flexible enough. Or both. It's _right there_, tickling between his shoulder blades, and his hand falls short by a fingerlength.

"Oh, _god_," he groans. "Really, what use are arms if you can't reach anything? I just—can't—oh, this is driving me _mad_!"

He leans out and looks to his right, attempting to peer into Chell's room. He's met with a closed door.

"Hey," he calls out, "are you busy? Sorry, if you are, but I've got a bit of a problem. Help needed. And appreciated. If you would. Can you hear me? At all? I'm not yelling to the door, am I?"

No response. Nothing. Not even poking her head out to see what's happened.

Wheatley tries once more to reach the middle of his back, arms stretching from both behind and over his shoulder, and he almost shouts in frustration because the constant itching makes him want to crawl out of his skin.

At his wits' end, he gets up and barges into Chell's room.

"Look, I know I'm not supposed to do this but I _really_ need your help and—oh. Um. Wow."

If Wheatley wasn't familiar with stimuli-and-response before, he is now.

"Oh, um, I'm—I'm sorry, really sorry, I just had this, um—I didn't m-mean to—" He's stammering and words are tumbling out of his mouth without end and he feels his face heat up, fire under his skin, and he's sure his ears are slowly blushing pink because there is very half-naked lady standing in front of him and just _wow_.

And she's angry. Oh god. She's angry and she's coming straight for him and—

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean—I just—"

Her hands flat, she shoves against his stomach. He flails backward and out of her room, heart squeezing up his throat and air fleeing from his lungs. The door then promptly slams in his face.

Wheatley stands there, stunned, breathless. Warmth pools below his belly and his face feels so uncomfortably hot.

"I just... wanted you to scratch my back," he mumbles.


	6. Prompt 005

**Prompt 005: "Wheatley finds a cat sitting outside the apartment and it won't leave him alone."**

It's about half past five. The sun is starting to sink its way leisurely below the skyline and Wheatley is strolling home from work, blue coat buttoned up tight and knit cap pulled over his ears. He's fascinated with how his breath looks in the bitter cold; puffs of smoky vapor unfurl out with every exhale.

He's only a block away from the apartment when he hears something very different from the usual thrum of the crowds. It's high-pitched, soft, somewhat melodic. He's not heard anything quite like it before.

Wheatley pauses, intrigued, and tries to search for the source of the sound. He squints through his glasses, eyes darting from across the street to the shops nearby. He finally glances down the length of an alleyway at the end of the block, and he finds it. A small, white cat stares back at him from around the corner.

"Oh, hello there," he says, kneeling down. His jeans hit the concrete sidewalk as he tugs his glove off his hand and reaches out to it. "What are you doing down there, little guy? Aren't you cold? It's nearly winter, after all. But I suppose you've got some fur on you, don't you? So maybe you're really not that cold."

The cat paws close, craning its neck, nose sniffing. Its tail twitches back and forth. After a few moments, it seems to deem Wheatley acceptable, because it hops onto his knees and starts rubbing against the front of his coat, purring loudly.

Wheatley is absolutely delighted. He's stroking its downy coat, index finger scratching behind its ears. Warm fuzziness settles behind his breastbone.

"Ah, you're an affectionate one, aren't you? Cute little bugger. Where's your mum and dad? They leave you out in the cold all by yourself? I hope not. That'd be bloody awful of them." He brushes his thumb along the cat's cheek when he notices something odd. "Oh, wow, look at that—your eyes! They're different colors. All blue and orange. Like… portals. That's a bit weird, if I'm honest. More than a bit. Are all cats like you?"

The cat continues to nuzzle into his hand, his coat, cold nose under his fingers. Its whiskers tickle his palm and it meows as if in response.

"I wonder what that means in English," says Wheatley.

Another meow, ears tilted forward, expectant.

Wheatley gingerly picks the cat up and sets it off his lap. "Sorry, kitty. You're very cute and all, really, you are, but I've got to get home. She'll be cross if I'm late for dinner. Again. And I don't think she'll particularly like me bringing you along."

He gives it one last pat on the head before pushing himself to his feet. He slips his glove back on, adjusts his glasses, and resumes his route home.

Wheatley walks a few meters before he realizes that he's not alone. Peeking over his shoulder, he sees the white ball of fur with portal eyes trailing along just behind him, paws trying to bat at his shoes.

"Don't you have a home?" he asks. "Someplace to go back to?"

The cat slinks up against his leg, back arched, head burrowing into his jeans. There's no collar around its neck; not even a slight depression or the wearing away of fur.

"You don't, do you?"

A short, trilling meow. Bright eyes, swishing tail.

Oh, he's _such_ a sucker.

"Hello!" he calls out, opening the door to their flat.

As Chell emerges from the kitchen to meet him by the coatrack, he holds up the cat.

"Sorry about this, love," he says, "but, well—we've got company."


	7. Prompt 006

**Prompt 006: "The thing Wheatley misses the most about being a personality core."**

Wheatley is curled up on the couch, his head resting in Chell's lap.

Drowsy and falling asleep to the soft murmur of their new telly, he can't help but feel pleased. She's warm and comfortable against the back of his neck, and her fingers are absently threading though his light brown hair, pausing occasionally to rub his scalp. Her other hand is occupied with a book on the arm rest. Every minute or so, he hears her turn the page with a gentle _fwip_.

Sometimes—just sometimes—he wishes he were smaller. He's not going to lie to himself: he is not a short man. He's slightly over two meters tall with gangling arms and skinny legs. He appreciates the advantages that such a height bestows (cupboards and top shelves are no match for him!), don't get him wrong, but the longer he carries on in his human body, the more he's convinced that height is… well, more of a hindrance than anything else.

Doors, for example. Doors and doorframes. He's lost count of how many times he's had to duck to avoid slamming his face into a doorframe. Most houses are not built for people above two meters—or that's how it seems, anyway. Seriously, who designs these things? Do tall people not exist in the architectural field? It's rubbish.

Oh, and another example: constantly having to bend to reach things. Stuff on the desk? Time for knees to bend. Something on the coffee table? Back bends a bit, too. It hurts sometimes, you know.

Height was not a problem when he was a personality core. Not a problem at all. Convenient, in fact. He was small, compact, portable. Needed to go someplace? Pop onto the management rail. Or, alternatively, have her carry him. He was quite easy to carry.

He sort of… well, _misses_ her carrying him, if he's honest. He's so big and lanky now, she couldn't hope to carry him if she tried. He's thin, sure, but seventy-something kilograms isn't really something to sneeze at. (He's still gaining, mind you. His metabolism is just… stupid.) He's pretty keen on the idea of having her hold him in her arms and carrying him about. She could even be the big spoon for once and cuddle him in bed. Oh, yes, he especially likes that last bit. How _amazing_ would that feel?

Another page _fwip_s and Chell shifts beneath him. Her hand continues to entwine with his hair, her nails gently massaging near the roots.

Although, now that he really thinks about it, being big isn't all that bad.

Wheatley savors the feeling of her fingers and a soft, contented noise rumbles in his chest.

This is nice, too.


	8. Prompt 007

**Prompt 007: "Wheatley has a violent allergic reaction to something."**

Wheatley comes to in a hospital bed.

His eyesight is bleary and his glasses are strangely absent. Blinking, squinting, he realizes there's something attached to the bend of his arm. It hurts. Actually, everything hurts. His head, his throat, his arm. His tongue feels thick and fat, like someone's puffed it full of air.

God. It's like he's been hit by a truck.

Everything takes a few moments to come into focus. There's a pale blue curtain pulled to the side, a small black telly bolted to the ceiling, and a whole lot of white. White blankets, white walls, white blinds on the windows, bright white fluorescent lights. It's blinding.

Wheatley registers a tight pressure on his hand and he can't seem to figure out what's happening. Lolling his head to the right, trying to focus through half-lidded eyes, he sees a vaguely human shape. Dark hair, peach skin.

"Oh, god," he murmurs, eyes scrunching shut. Talking feels weird. Slow and too much effort. "Is—is that you? Please say it is."

Fingers lace with his and squeeze. That's a yes.

"Thank god," he says. His thumb rubs along Chell's knuckles. "What am—what am I doing here? My head just… _hurts_."

"You lost consciousness," says a voice. It's deeper, scratchier, male; definitely not hers. "Anaphylaxis."

Wheatley can't wrap his tongue around that word. Thinking feels like wading through molasses. "Anapha-what?"

"Allergies, in other words. Your throat was beginning to swell shut. Pretty nasty hives, too."

Wheatley tries to lean forward, but he feels the flat of her palm press against his chest to push him back. He can almost hear her thoughts: _No, not getting up. You're not well._ He complies and sinks back onto the gurney.

"She said it was coconut cake. Have you eaten coconut before, Wheatley?"

He tries to probe around his mind for the answer, but it's not particularly effective. Everything is enshrouded in fog.

"No," he replies. "No, can't say I have. But I can't exactly… well, remember. It's all fuzzy." Her fingers squeeze harder and things start to resurface in pieces. "I think I remember… not breathing."

Choking, panicking, adrenaline surging through his veins. He remembers the kitchen floor as it rushes up to meet his face. He remembers nausea clamping down on his stomach and he remembers his skin starting to burn. Somewhere in the midst, his vision went out, and blackness sewed in.

"You'll be staying overnight. It's just to make sure everything's fine."

Wheatley notices a figure in blue scrubs by the curtain. No matter how much he tries, he can't quite make out the face.

"You're a lucky guy," says the doctor. "She's been here the whole time."

He's in pain, but there's a gentle flutter in the circle of his ribs. Wheatley grins, strangely content, and relishes the comforting warmth of her hand. He turns his head to the side again, pillow upon his cheek, and he tries his best to see her through the blur.

"Well. Looks like coconut's off the menu now, isn't it?"


	9. Prompt 008

**Prompt 008: "Can we get a Wheatley Warm Up with him trying to 'solve himself' and Chell walks in and he's all shy and apologizes 98798 times for 'giving in to the itch' and she reassures him and gives him a handjob to help him finish (basically just rlly fluffy smut)"**

There are some things Wheatley has had to figure out for himself. Chell can only explain so much, he supposes. And really, some things can be a bit personal.

Masturbation is one of them.

Drowsiness pulls at his eyelids. He's only just awakened. He's supine to the ceiling, shoulders tense, covers half down his body. His trousers are uncomfortably tight and he's sucking on his lower lip, unable to focus on anything but the heat pooling below. He hasn't given in; he has yet to touch. He's not sure if he should.

He feels… well, _guilty_ about it, if he's honest. There are so many conflicting emotions when he's like this. The only thing he's felt that's been remotely as agonizing and unbearable was The Itch when he was in Her body, and that—well. That hurt her. He doesn't ever want to hurt her again.

But oh _god_ does it ever ache.

Wheatley's tongue runs along the back of his teeth as he palms his erection through his pajamas. It's hot and hard and he finds his hips arching, coaxing. She threads through his thoughts and the image of her slowly pulling off her shirt, the curve of her shoulders, her hips, roots in his mind's eye. His fingers snake underneath the fabric and he wraps them around his cock, squeezing gently into a slow upstroke. Pleasure shudders through his nerves in a heady surge.

He's incredibly weak and he hates it so much because he shouldn't be feeling like this, he shouldn't be thinking about her, he shouldn't let it take control of him again, but _fuck_ this feels so goddamn _good_ and he doesn't know why.

There's a threadbare moan in his chest and he's shimmied out of his trousers, his pants, air kissing his pale skin. Shallow breaths control his lungs and cocktails of chemicals pump through him as his blood runs southbound. His hand works with long, drawn out strokes; his fingers and thumb slide down to the base and leisurely meet back at the tip, coating in precum.

Just when he feels like he can speed up, he hears a knock at his door.

Fuck.

He's half naked, clothes strewn down his bed, blankets everywhere. _What does he do, what does he do, what—_

Another knock.

"Ah, um—just—just a second, s-sorry," he manages, voice hoarse and buried down his throat. Scrambling, he grabs his glasses and snatches his boxer shorts from the corner of the bed and tries to slip them back on. Not that they really do anything. There is a _very_ visible tent.

The door starts to open and Wheatley opts to throw a blanket over his lower half.

She leans against the doorjamb, arms crossed, eyebrow arched. Oh, god. His face is red, he knows it. His cheeks feel warm and the tips of his ears are burning. He must look so guilty.

"Uh, hello," he says, lifting his hand in a halfhearted wave.

Chell's eyes dart to his still quite obvious erection beneath the sheets. Her smirk does not make him feel better. Neither does the small tank top she's wearing. Or the thin shorts. In fact, it complicates things. Namely making him much harder than he was a few minutes ago.

Wheatley's throat is very dry. "I'm—I'm sorry, I can explain. It's not what it looks like. Well, it actually kind of is but I—no, I'm sorry, sorry, it just _happens_, I can't control it. It just feels—" He makes this grunting, frustrated noise; "—it feels like… back There, you know? Like it's that… Itch. I-I just don't… I don't know. I'm sorry."

She shakes her head, dark hair falling into her eyes, and she strides across the room to join him in bed. Scooting in next to him, she reaches across to frame his jaw with her hand and pulls him close to her. She rubs her nose against his, soft, comforting, and when she kisses just below his lip, he can feel her smile.

"Um, sorry, what are you—I mean, not that I'm complaining, but—"

She traces from his jaw to his neck, down his chest, his belly, and then she pushes the blanket aside. Everything seems to intensify when she cups him through his undershorts and her thumb brushes the head of his cock. He can feel himself pulse and the heat of her hand is so pleasurable, so inviting; his mind is running blank and he doesn't know what to do with himself because _she's right here_ and _she's actually touching him_, oh _god_.

"Ah," he moans in a shaky exhale, "god, that… that feels good."

His hips have started to rock as she strokes him through his pants. The ache is so twistingly tight, coiling, mounting, she feels so _amazing_, and then she's pulled him out, the softness of her fingers holding him, skin to skin. His breathing is jagged and he needs something to hold on to and so he curls an arm around her, cradling the back of her head, lacing his fingers in her hair. She licks his lower lip and he pushes forward and mashes it into a kiss because she's so fucking hot and doing incredible things to him and he can barely stand it.

"God," he breathes against her mouth, "god, love, please, I—"

She cuts him off with a tight upstroke, nerves sparking, thoughts disconnecting. It's fire, pleasure, the Itch, and she's helping him and indulging him and all he can think of is her beneath him, what she might look like, what sounds she might make, how lust would paint her face.

The pace quickens, her fingers squeezing, and his mouth won't bloody shut up. He's chanting, "Yes, yes, god, you're brilliant, oh, _yes_," because he doesn't know how to handle this, how to handle her, how to deal with her teasing kisses on his jawline or his neck or how incredibly hard he is and how it's so close, it's almost there, just—

And then something triggers; that delicious tightness sharpening to a peak, burying into everything, and _fuck_, it's insatiable and commanding and strings of incoherent syllables are drawing out of his mouth and into hers as she grounds him with a kiss. Her hand continues to pump as he comes, slick and wet with white.

Wheatley has stopped talking only because he's sure if he didn't focus on _breathing_ he wouldn't be conscious right now. He's dazed, panting, shivering. God, that was amazing. Absolutely… completely amazing. His forehead presses against hers as his body slumps, and he feels her nuzzle his nose again. Gentle, reassuring: _You okay?_

"Oh… oh, wow." He clears his throat and tries to swallow. "That was… tremendous. Seriously. God. I… well, I made a bit of a mess. Um. Sorry. I didn't mean to, I just—"

He's silenced by another kiss. Her blue eyes are bright with laughter and her lips are curved in a smile against his. No anger, no hatred, no judgment. Not at all what he expected. Well, not that he expected any of this.

Wheatley holds her close, kisses her back, and grins.


	10. Prompt 009

**Prompt 009: "How about you write you write something about the first time Wheatley has to write something with a pencil and paper? How would he hold a pencil and learn to form the letters, especially when he doesn't even know what his dominant hand is?"**

Wheatley is not unfamiliar with words. Once being a construct of technology, endless words fed through his compilers. They designated his tasks, created his thoughts, and computed his reactions. Of course, words only stood as placeholders for more complex groups of numbers. Peeled apart and stripped down into their simplest form, one would find millions upon millions of lines of raw machine code. Words are much easier to program with, though, and so words were what he saw.

However, no matter how familiar he is with words, he will admit that writing is a problem. He can read quite well, but his human hands are… well, not the most dexterous of things. He's always dropping cups, pans, silverware, bottles of soap; if it exists, he's dropped it. And most likely damaged it. Somehow.

And it's unfortunate, because Chell's two main forms of communication are body language and writing. When she can't get something across with gestures or touching, she turns to pen and paper. Sometimes whole conversations, other times just short questions. Every now and then, a drawing or two. She'll even leave him notes around the house in her gentle, curving script. Something taped to the fridge: "_Dinner at 6 this week._" A page taped to the door: "_Bread on your way home, please._"

Wheatley wishes he could leave her notes. The idea of writing something meant for her stirs fluttering warmth under his breastbone. If others can learn how to write, why can't he?

The process, unfortunately, is not as easy as he's hoped. He's determined to do it on his own without her help, and the more he tries, the more frustrated he becomes.

"Why does this have to be so bloody _hard_?" Wheatley groans and leans back into his nest of pillows. He should have been asleep hours ago, but instead, he's there with the lamp by his bed, notepad and pen in hand, one of her books sitting by his lap.

The paper has ink marks all over it. Scratched out letters, words, bits of sentences. There's only one letter he's proud of, the letter C, the first part of an attempt at her name, and it's in the center of the page.

Wheatley rolls the pen between his spindly fingers, staring at the opened book. He's using it as a frame of reference as the serif font is proper, clear, and easy to mimic, but it doesn't seem to help. Anything he tries to write turns out a squiggly mess. He's tried both hands, too. Neither of them seems to feel right.

"Maybe I'm not trying hard enough," he says, swapping the pen to his left. "She always solved things when she tried hard enough."

He situates his fingers like he's seen her do, gripping with thumb and forefinger, and brings the point down to the page. There's a pause, stillness, black ink seeping into smooth white, and then he drags it unevenly downward. Not a straight line, but not a total wreck. He brings the pen in a curve, starting up, across, and then back down.

It's a lowercase H. The second letter of her name.

Wheatley double checks with his reference. When he sees that it's quite close with the printed letter in the book, he feels his chest swell with pride.

At this rate, soon he'll be leaving her notes _all over_ the house.


	11. Prompt 010

**Prompt 010: "Could you maybe write something about human!wheatley crying for the first time? (either sad or happy, just as long as it ends in some chelley fluff :D) thanks ~3"**

Wheatley has driven for miles.

His brown hair's luster is sunkissed gold and his uncovered shoulders blush red with sunburn. His boot presses hard against the gas pedal and the Jeep Wrangler he jacked several hundred miles back powers over 90 down the deserted highway. Fierce wind curves around his face and down his lungs, and the longer he chases the setting sun, the more he feels alive. There's only one radio station in this stagnant heat—some sort of old 30's or 40's swing—and he has it cranked as loud as it'll go.

Adjusting his glasses, he glances to the bundle of rolled up maps in the passenger seat. Each one marks a place he's been, charted, searched. There are several tied together with a shoelace, anchored by a water canteen and satchel of supplies.

Months ago, he emerged from the shed a pale, pitiful husk. The Transfer sucked him out of the mechanical body he once had and placed him in this fleshy one. It was a death sentence; not only would She get her wish of revenge, he now had the opportunity to die in the most gruesome ways possible.

A piece of work, She is. Bloody brilliant. Too bad he's proving Her wrong.

Wheatley passes a large, green sign bolted onto the side of the road. City names are listed one after the other by their closeness in miles. They are all very plain, hardly noteworthy, names like Rockville and Eldridge and Delwood. They will only be more places to pause at, places to chart; places that will be empty and void of people, or places where the survivors have gathered to build.

"Eldridge, next right," he says, another sign whizzing past. "That might be where the radio's coming from. Might as well give it a go."

He lets off the gas and slows, pulling onto the curving exit ramp. Dried grass and withered bushes line the road. The dirt is cracked and weathered; alligator skin.

Eldridge swerves into view, and it's not quite as impressive as he's imagined. It's not a city, but a town, bearing shoddy buildings and ramshackle roads. Still, there's hope: black smoke billows up toward the purple-blush sky from somewhere in the center.

"_And that was the classic 'Sing Sing Sing,' by Benny Goodman. Up next, we have another block of swingin' music comin' your way, straight outta Eldridge!_"

Wheatley flips the radio knob down to a murmur and lets the Wrangler coast. He passes run down houses with crumbling bricks, dried up fountains, blinking traffic lights. At least there's power in this place, he thinks. That's a plus.

Following the smoke, he rounds a bend, spinning the steering wheel, and then there are _people_. Camping along the sidewalks, in their parked cars, all clustered together with umbrellas or tarps spread over chairs and the backs of pickup trucks.

Wheatley pumps on the breaks and slows to a halt. "Oi," he calls to a nearby huddle of people, "I'm looking for someone—what is this place?"

An elderly fellow with a scraggly beard dressed in a poncho stands up, sweat soaked bandana wrapped around his forehead. "Go toward the bonfire, son!" he calls back. "Lost folks always turn up there!"

"Bonfire, yeah?" says Wheatley. "Thanks mate! Much appreciated!"

It doesn't take him long to find the bonfire. It's gigantic, billowing, surrounded by cracked cinderblocks and broken boulders. Thick, coiling smoke climbs toward the sun in a cloudy pillar. Crowds of people are congregated around its massive perimeter, dressed in light clothes or accompanied by more parasols and tarps.

Wheatley's heart jumps out of his throat when he sees her. Slamming on the breaks, he shoves the gear shift in park and bolts out of the Jeep, not even bothering to snatch the keys out of the ignition.

Her back is to him, her face to the fire, but he _knows_. She's in ripped jeans and a white tank, her hair long, brown, tied back in a ponytail at the base of her head. Her shoulders, her legs, her shape, the way she holds herself; _he knows_.

Wheatley stumbles to her, adrenaline flooding him, drowning him. His tongue is caught in his throat, and even though he's practiced what he would say in his head, his mind is strangely blank. He's had speeches rehearsed, dozens of them, dozens for dozens of scenarios, but nothing has prepared him for this.

"Hey," he says, breathless.

Chell looks over her shoulder. When she sees him out of the corner of her eye, she spins around, body on alert. Her eyes, stern and guarded, look so beautiful in the glare of the roaring fire.

He wants to say things like "Do you remember me?" and "Been a while, hasn't it?" and "I'm so sorry," but he doesn't. Can't. He's being smothered in his own panic and he doesn't know what to do and he doesn't want to lose her again and so he's rushing to her, damn everything else, crashing into her and wrapping his arms so tight around her waist and crushing her to him as he buries his face in the crook of her neck.

"I… I finally found you." Something is hurting in the back of his mouth and wetness is welling up in his eyes. His voice sounds hoarse to his ears. He's never done this before and his own reaction is making things worse.

Chell's legs are way off the ground and she's hanging there, limp. He's shaking with silent sobs, tears smearing her neck, and after a few moments, he feels her arms slowly make their way across the plane of his back. Her hands clasp together at the base of his neck, just near his shoulder blades, and begin to knead.

Wheatley hiccups, crying, dampness soaking his cheeks. He doesn't know why she's not cracking him in the jaw. She has every right. But he is so incredibly grateful she's not.

The bonfire burns long into the night. Smoke swells into the darkness and blots out the face of the moon. They sit in the back of the Wrangler, watching the flames as they ignite the sky.

Wheatley sniffles against her, overwhelmed, and Chell holds him tight.


	12. Prompt 011

**Prompt 011: "#6 made me want Wheatley to get a cuddle story, soo... Chelley cuddles? Vague prompt is vague."**

Wheatley wishes he could make her nightmares vanish.

When thirst spurs him from his slumber and he traverses the dark in a midnight trip to the fridge, he'll notice her presence on the sofa. She's a silent statue, stoic and unmoving under the shroud of shadows. Her stare is empty, hollow; perhaps she steeps in horrors far beyond this realm in a world he can't see.

Chell never reaches out to him, and he knows why: she must dream of more than just Her.

In a way, it aches. It spears through his chest, his lungs, his heart, and it makes a sharp twist that lingers long into the night. His guilt could fill rivers, lakes, oceans; he could drown in it; he could spend hundreds of lives trying to push from the bottom to break the surface, gasping, hoarse, oxygen deprived, and still there would be a mountain to climb.

He tries his best to make her happy, but he can only do so much. He'll help her with dinner, leave her encouraging notes, make her tea. He'll take her out on scenic walks outside the city limits, out with a picnic and the wheat fields and the lake. He'll talk to her and reassure her and tell her she's brilliant, she's wonderful, she's perfect.

But no matter how much he does, he can't protect her from her mind.

Wheatley wanders out of his room, drowsy and parched. As he crosses the dark living room and turns into the kitchen, he can sense her in her usual place, just on the end of the couch, staring absently at the wall. After being blinded by the refrigerator, he collects a cup of water and ambles to the sofa, one arm out, reaching, and sinks down next to her.

"You okay?" he asks, taking a sip. The liquid is cold relief.

She doesn't reply. Not even a gesture.

Wheatley places the cup down on the coffee table. He situates himself so he's facing her on the couch, one leg on the floor, the other tucked in flat against the cushion. Her long hair is disheveled, pooling down her back and collarbone.

"Nightmares, isn't it." It's not a question; he doesn't need to ask.

In the muted moonlight, she nods. Her hand rises up, fingers against her head, and then jolts out, honing back in as if she's going to strike herself.

Nightmares.

"I feel helpless here," he says. "Don't know what I should do, you know? Seeing you like this, night after night. Just wish I could help."

Her fingers find his hand and curl tight. He revels in the warmth, the pressure, and takes the opportunity to move closer. One arm brought around her, the other holding her hand, he brings her against him, burying his face in her hair. The gentle scent of her soap causes his thumping heart to pump faster.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, nuzzling his nose against her scalp. "I know I keep saying it and you're probably getting sick of it by now or something, but it's the truth. It really is. I'm sorry."

Chell breathes deeply, shoulders trembling, and leans into him. Wheatley strokes the back of her hand with his thumb, fingers completely enveloping hers. He knows he's big, but she's so small, and it's staggering to think that such a tremendous will resides in such a diminutive vessel. It's a hard concept to wrap his mind around. Then again, her tenacity reminds him of what happened back There, and even though he wishes he could make her nightmares vanish, he wishes he could erase all he's done so much more.

"Everything's all right," he says, holding her close. "Okay? Things will get better. They will. I promise."

She doesn't reply, but she burrows her face into the space by his collarbone. Her nose is cold and it touches pale skin where the neck of his shirt dips down. She grips his hand tighter.

Smiling into the softness of her hair, Wheatley squeezes back.


	13. Prompt 012

**Prompt 012: "Wheatley experiences a thunderstorm for the first time."**

Wheatley is not fond of the rain.

As a core, water was something he avoided at all costs. Not exactly good for the circuitry, you know. One of the most harmful things for a robot. Except perhaps physical dismantlement.

But as a human, water is something he must consume to keep his body functioning properly. Baths are also required; humans can be very smelly if they don't exercise proper hygiene, and he absolutely refuses to be one of those who doesn't.

He's retrained himself (with her help) to not hate water (as much). Small glasses of water don't stir up that apprehension anymore, but baths sometimes do.

However, both instances of water are in controlled environments. Wheatley manipulates how much water is present via a faucet or the pitcher in the fridge. It gives him more power over a fear that is no longer applicable and lets him ease into the idea of interacting with it.

But rain? Oh. Rain is _awful_.

It pours out of the sky for no reason. Absolutely no reason. And sometimes without warning. It's wet and gets his clothes all damp and mats his hair; it's ruined perfectly good days and lovely walks with Chell, and quite honestly, if it were up to him, rain wouldn't ever happen again.

Of course, the world isn't up to him, and so a storm rolls in about midafternoon.

There's a crockpot atop the stove, simmering away, and the kitchen is thick and heady with the scent of stewing meat and vegetables. Wheatley sits slumped at the table, bare feet flat on linoleum tile. With his chin in his palm, he glares out the window at the gathering thunderheads. Faint booms can be heard far in the distance; he can just barely catch webs of lightning as they crack through the rolling clouds.

He's only seen small rain showers in the short time he's been on the surface. The sky washes out until it's a muted gray, coupled with a layer of rain-laden clouds. Drops fall at a steady pace and patter on the concrete.

This is monstrous and dark; a whole different beast.

Anxiety tight in his throat, Wheatley glances to Chell. She's handling a ladle, leaning against the countertop, waiting for the timer to go off.

"Looking bad out there, isn't it?" he remarks. "Not liking this. A bit nervous, if I'm honest."

Chell cocks her head to the side, craning her neck to peer out the window. She doesn't seem fazed.

Another boom. Much closer this time. In a sudden onslaught, rain unleashes outside in a furious rhythm of drums. Lightning illuminates the murky sky in a jagged flash.

Wheatley swallows as the drops splash against the glass. "You know, come to think of it," he says, rising to his feet, "I think I'll just join you. Over there. Away from here. Where it's, um, safe. Safer. Windows can break under intense pressure. A very real danger, broken windows. In case you didn't know."

Heart thumping, he slinks into the corner with her by the stove. When the storm is roaring overhead and the thunder vibrates through the walls and the rain is an endless wall of water, he flinches and tucks himself closer to the curve of her back.

Chell only reaches up, pats him on the cheek, and offers him a sip of stew.


	14. Prompt 013

**Prompt 013: "Wheatley's reaction to nature as he walks through a forest with Chell."**

He's seen the surface of the Earth in dreams. Fragments, shards, pieces, glimpses of when she held him out over the moon. Glowing across the horizon, blanketed with pinprick stars in his mindscape, he sees oceans and landmasses so impossibly large and gorgeous and breathtaking, and in that sailing blackness, he's able to absorb just how _incredible_ the world is.

That tight, rocketing feeling of pure wonderment is with him now, buried right between his lungs.

Birdsong encompasses the clearing. Great trees with thick, leg-width roots tower far into the sky, autumn leaves collapsing into a thinning canopy. Reds and golds and oranges that aren't Aperture mesh into a mosaic of vibrant, astonishing color. The air is crisp, fresh, alive; breezes sweep under branches and through piles of leaves, scattering scores of shapes into swirling kaleidoscopes and into Wheatley's face.

He's enraptured. He's only been far enough outside town to see the endless wheat fields. This place is far on the other side, tucked past the lake. He's not sure how far they've walked to get here, but he will gladly do it again if it means he gets to see this.

Chell touches his hand. He feels the gentle coolness of her fingers circle his own. Thrill winding close, Wheatley glances down at her by his side.

"This is amazing," he says. "Absolutely amazing! How did you find this place? Seriously. Never would've thought to come all the way out here. I mean, it is a bit out of the way, isn't it? But wow, all the trees, colors, everything. It's beautiful. We should come here more often. Well, if you want. Don't have to. But I think it would be brilliant. Just _look_ at all of this."

She leans into his arm, head resting against the fabric of his jumper, and he feels her fingers lace through his. Savoring the contact, he grins and brushes a rogue lock of hair out of her eyes.

"And that's not to say you're not beautiful, because you are. Prettiest lady here. Well, not that there are any others. Sort of… deserted. Except for us. But that's not what I meant."

She smirks, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

"I'm not very good at this," he groans, palming his forehead. "But you do know what I was trying to say, though. Right? I know it sounded like some sort of backhanded compliment or something, but it really wasn't meant like that. Really, it wasn't. I'm sorry."

The breeze kicks up, flowing through her thick hair and disheveling his. Leaves sweep across the grassy earth and tumble against his jeans, crackling amongst themselves.

Chell stands on her tip toes. She cups his jaw with her hand, soft and cool, bringing him down, and she rubs her nose against his.

He's learned that this is comfort, calm; this is, "_I'm okay. Are you?_"

"I'm not okay," Wheatley replies, and envelops her hand with his. "I'm far better."


	15. Prompt 014

**Prompt 014: "I'm very curious about the first time Wheatley looked at himself in a mirror after The Transfer. How did he react?"**

Mirrors are not an unfamiliar object. Reflective surfaces of all types were rather prevalent in Aperture's framework (it looked like the architect had a bit of a thing for them, if he's honest), so Wheatley would often see himself as he scooted about on his management rail. He was small, round, very metal. Some odd bits here and there. Handles of some sort. More metal. All centered around a brilliant blue optic. Handsome, yeah?

The Transfer shattered his world. Needless to say, after being so used to his compact robotic body, being stuffed into this fleshy thing comes as quite a shock.

Wheatley is in the bathroom, staring in bewilderment at his reflection in the mirror above the sink. Water drips down his naked human body. It slides down the plane of his back, down long, pale legs, down sharp ankles, and blots the towel beneath his feet.

Anxiety about the shower has dissipated (for the most part), and now that he's able to concentrate more clearly, he's not sure if he likes what he sees. There is a human man staring back at him—not a robot, not a personality core, but a man—and it gives him the strangest sense of disconnect. He doesn't associate himself with this reflection. This bloke with the gaunt face, pronounced cheekbones, long nose, and angular jaw shouldn't be him. He shouldn't have soaked brown hair or tendons running down his throat or bones blossoming below his neck.

He brings a hand to his cheek and pushes his fingertips into the skin. It gives way to the pressure; soft, pliable, slightly damp. Nerves beneath pick up on the touch and he can feel it both in his face and in his fingers. There is a whole network of complexity inside of this body, like cords and programming and circuitry, and he finds himself marveling at how similar and different it all is. And it's all his.

_His_. It's strange to think he has control of this thing, but he does. Hands, arms, legs, feet, chest, face. Muscles, organs, and veins instead of motherboards, nanochips, and CPUs. It's all so foreign and new, and he's starting to feel overwhelmed.

Wheatley's expression has contorted. His brow is knit, his jaw is set, his mouth a thin line, and he can't stop staring at the creature in the mirror that _isn't_ him but somehow _is_. It's such a jarring thing to see. How does she deal with all of this? How does anyone? How do humans carry on being… well, humans?

With a shuddering sigh, he turns to grab the towel off the rack behind him. As he begins to methodically dab it across his skin (_his_ skin) as she showed him, he can see ladders of ribs peer out at him from the mirror. He's only had the privilege of seeing himself without clothes, so he's not sure if everyone is as scrawny looking as he is or if it's just him.

Is his body attractive? he wonders. Does he have a suitable form as a human? Will people know he's different just from looking? Will they make fun of him? Will he be another moron in this body, too?

Wheatley drapes the towel over his head, pausing once more to look at his reflection.

Time will have to tell.


	16. Prompt 015

**Prompt 015: "How about Wheatley's first ride on public transport."**

Wheatley draws a confident breath and boards the bus. There is a thick, stale heat that greets him on his next inhale: recycled air, exhaust, and body sweat. Hand sliding up the metal rail, keeping balance, he climbs the steep stairs and into the hull. As he crests the final step, he pauses and looks down the closed tunnel, seas of gray seats and spectrums of faces, and he realizes just how many people are crammed into this thing.

Usually, Wheatley is pretty comfortable when it comes to crowds. Other humans interest him. He finds himself watching when he's on his walks home from work; parents out with their children, couples holding hands down the sidewalk, gaggles of young girls flocking to various shops. Their interactions, their mannerisms, their conversations make something inside his chest swell with warmth. He's not sure if it's the human in him that's taking over or if it's because he truly does enjoy people-watching, but it feels very pleasant. It somehow gives him a feeling of connection, of _togetherness_; something he finds he's sorely missed.

Don't get him wrong: he delights in Chell's company. She is the strongest, cleverest person he's ever had the fortune of meeting. In fact, there is no person in the world he would rather spend time with than her. He doesn't find her muteness difficult or frustrating; he's come to learn her language, even if it isn't spoken.

But there's just something special about listening, watching, _observing_. It's fulfilling to see bits and pieces of life he's missed. Prior to his existence as a personality core, his memory is very blank. He's not sure what might have happened then (if anything happened at all), but a deeper part of him believes that there might have been another life there somewhere, even if he can't remember it.

"Hey, you're holding up the line!" says a voice behind him. "Move it or lose it!"

"Oh, um—sorry, mate," says Wheatley.

He hastily slips Chell's fare card into a compact electronic box by the portly driver ("_You can't miss it,_" she writes; "_It'll be right there as you get on_"). It pops back out into the palm of his hand, and he promptly pockets it in the folds of his coat. Face hot, he pulls his knit cap further over his ears and stumbles to an empty seat about halfway down, tripping over legs and luggage.

To his left, an old lady is wrapped up in a faux fur-lined parka, hood cast over her face. As Wheatley scoots in and tries to adjust his legs, she grumbles something under her breath and buries herself against the window.

"Sorry, didn't mean to get you if I did," he says, hands holding his knees. "They don't really make these things for tall people, do they? Bit awkward to sit in. Not to be snobby or anything, but it's just not very good design. Doesn't seem like they put much thought into the whole thing."

She doesn't reply, but Wheatley takes comfort in the fact that he made it safely on the bus, which means he'll have more things to tell Chell about when he gets home.

The giant machine grunts beneath him, some sort of mechanical cough, and then the world outside starts to scroll.


	17. Prompt 016

**Prompt 016: "How about Wheatley meeting an animal for the first time, you can choose what animal."**

The only living things Wheatley has seen in Aperture's halls have been humans.

He does take care of them, after all. Even if they are shut off. Well, not shut off. In stasis. That's the technical term. They're in stasis. Suspended animation and all that. Brilliant stuff. The whole Relaxation Center is full of humans in stasis. The older rooms aren't actually rooms at all; they're like some sort of chamber filled with _water_ (his tiny chassis shudders to think of it) and the humans are sort of just… floating there, eyes closed, pickling, cords hooked all over their bodies. It looks bloody eerie, if he's honest.

Of course, in addition to humans, there are other robots about. Although he supposes they're not really _living_ if one sticks solely to the biological definition of things, but that's a rather fine line, don't you think? He prefers to think of himself as living. He's sentient, intelligent, taking part in daily routines. He has thoughts, feelings, sensations, albeit simulated. He completes tasks in his internal queue, which sorts them in accordance with some kind of complex algorithm that is manufactured in machine code. Really, why shouldn't he be categorized as a living thing? Seems a bit, you know, discriminatory. Hostile work environment. That's a court case waiting to happen.

Wheatley zips along his management rail, optic blue and bright, circuitry humming under his hull. He's in the Relaxation Center, popping about between hanging rooms, checking on the status of the humans in suspension. The rail leads him to one boxed room in particular; series of numbers are printed upon its side, yellow and bold.

He's about to pop up to the control panel when his sensors pick up abrupt movement above.

"Hello? Anyone there?" Wheatley peers over the top of the cell with the help of the rail. He blinks, soft blue light illuminating the gunmetal gray framework. "Look, Rick, if that's you again, I swear—I'm not falling for it. Can't go using the same trick over and over, mate. Seriously. Not going to work. I'm not easily frightened, you know. Just jumping out of nowhere isn't as scary as—AAGH!"

A black shadow swoops into the air and circles around him, lightning quick. It screeches, a high-pitched, keening noise that seems to scratch at his receptors, and it echoes in the vast space of the Relaxation Center.

Wheatley jolts a safe distance back on the management rail, handles pressed close to his chassis, optic shut tight. "Oh, god, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he rambles, "I didn't mean to—" He cracks it open, just a smidge, and there is a bird staring back.

Oh. Well. That's new.

"You're not one of them," he says to the bird. "Where'd you come from, little animal? That is the proper term, right? You're an animal? Definitely not a human. Or if you are, well, no offense, but you're not exactly the most attractive one. From this robot's non-biased point of view, of course."

The bird, feathery and black, lands on the edge of the cell. Small eyes scrutinize him as the creature cocks its head, wings folded.

"Well," says Wheatley, much less surprised (not scared, mind), "not exactly sure how you got in, sealed exits and all, but, just thought you should know, this isn't a very good place for birds. Lots of humans about. Well, they're mostly in suspension, so maybe that won't affect you much, but everything's been going on the blink lately. Power outages or something. Might be some tremors. Not particularly good when the old box moves about, yeah?"

The bird is ignoring him. It's now perched on his management rail, slowly inching its way toward him.

Wheatley scoots back, compilers processing apprehension. "Now listen, I think this is starting to get a bit too close. Ha, you know, invasion of personal space. I sort of like having space between myself and small animals. Or just anything, really. Space is very nice. Appreciated. And you're not going to listen to me, are you? You're not listening. Oh, god. Don't hurt me, don't hurt me, don't—"

The bird has climbed atop his body, claws clasped about his top handle. It lets out a shrill _caw_ before craning down to look into Wheatley's optic. He can see beady eyes, sharp beak, and black feathers. It sits there, studying him, and it doesn't seem like it means to do him harm. Or that's what the algorithms are telling him, anyway.

"Oh," says Wheatley. "Are you a peaceful sort?"

The bird makes a softer cooing noise, still peering into his optic.

"I'm not entirely sure what that means," says Wheatley. "But I do have a job to do, you know, so if you could just… move, that would be great."

The bird, however, does not.

"All right, all right, fine. Sit there. But I'm warning you, there will be a lot of movement involved once I'm finished here. Can't really get across the facility without it. A required thing, movement. So if you're going to stay there, don't get cross with me once it starts. Okay?"

The bird squawks in reply, adjusting itself upon his handle.

"Right then," says Wheatley, approaching the control panel once more. He aligns himself with the screen and analyzes the readings according to the preset that pops onto his HUD. When he's satisfied that everything seems to be in order, he swivels on the rail and prepares to continue on to his next target.

"You ready?" he asks the bird.

"Corrugh," says the bird.

"I'll just take that as a yes. Right. Off we go!"

And both Wheatley and the bird zip off to another part of the Relaxation Center.


	18. Prompt 017

**Prompt 017: "Could you write something about wheats gaining weight (or preferably him just getting pretty noticeably chubby ((I know it's not that much of a popular idea in the fandom, but I think it's cute and it would be hella if there was some chelley fluff involved again)))? Thanks!"**

Wheatley emerged from suspension as a malnourished, underweight patchwork of atrophied muscle and sallow skin. Bones pressed up beneath his hands, his chest, his back, his hips; tendons were against the pale column of his throat, cradling his prominent adam's apple beneath the stubble of his chin. He was altogether so very thin, dangerously so, and Chell remembers: when she held his hand in the vast wheat fields, it felt like she could tear it in two.

Since taking him in, she's made sure his meals have been healthy and filling. He eats three per day (he reminds her if she forgets), and anything she makes, he devours with appreciation and gratitude. Contented hums from across the table, an "Oh, love, this is _amazing_," and "You really should do this for a living, you know!"; compliments that make her blood run warm and her face feel like she's standing over a pot of boiling water.

Building up what sleep and cells have consumed has proven to be quite difficult. Gaining weight doesn't seem to happen so easily for Wheatley. Countless years in suspension must have done a number on his body to be sure. Still, she notices small things: his sharp wrist bones softening, his protruding ribs being enveloped, the gauntness in his face smoothing out. It's a slow process.

Chell is in the kitchen, taking the whistling kettle off the stove. The television babbles from the living room; some sort of sitcom, she thinks, because she can hear Wheatley's laughter from around the corner. She pours the water into the mugs she's set out, each with its own blend of Earl Grey.

As she emerges from the kitchen, she sees Wheatley sprawled out across the couch, head upon a cushion, basking in the light of the TV. His blue pajama shirt is riding up, and she notes that he's developed a bit of a paunch.

"This is brilliant," he says, beckoning her over with a wave of his hand. "You really should watch this, you know. I think you'll like it. Well, maybe you might. But you won't know until you watch, yeah? So here, come on, sit down." He pulls his gangly legs in and sits upright, patting the spot beside him.

Chell smiles, weaving around the coffee table. She places her mug down and hands him his before sinking into the sofa.

"Oh, thank you. You're amazing, you know that?" He brings an arm around her, fingers climbing through her hair, and she feels the softness of his mouth as he kisses her forehead.

Warmth knots behind her breastbone, comforting and close. She leans into his body, heat seeping into her nerves, and her hand reaches across to rest on his belly. Her thumb fondly strokes the patch of hair that trails southward.

"It's about this bloke called the Doctor," he says, sipping from the mug. "He does all sorts of crazy things. He's mad, but incredibly clever. Got this thing, something or other screwdriver, and it—well, it hacks things, more or less. Wish I could hack things like that. It just takes him a few seconds, not even, and then doors are swinging open like they've never been locked. Brilliant."

Chell isn't interested in the television, but she indulges him and watches anyway. As the fellow with spiky hair scrambles around on screen with a blond lady, she feels Wheatley tuck his arm around her side and bring her closer.

He nudges his forehead against hers, glasses touching her brow. "Love you," he murmurs.

Chell can't return the words, but she kisses him, slow and soft, and she hopes he knows she loves him, too.


	19. Prompt 018

**Prompt 018: "Wheatley warm-up where he encounters snow for the first time?"**

It's a few days before Christmas when Wheatley wakes up to a world swathed in white.

He tucks the curtains of his bedroom window aside and light pours into his room, bright and brilliant and blinding. He squints and gazes out into the street—or what used to be the street—and sees people plodding about in boots, hats, and scarves, wielding things like shovels and bags of salt. Drops of white flutter down from the sky, he notices, swirling in gusts toward the blanketed ground.

Entrenched in panic and bewilderment, Wheatley scrambles from the bedroom. Her door is open, the den is empty except for the small tree laced with lights, and he inhales the familiar scent of oil and meat. Wheatley heads for the kitchen.

Chell is by the stove, frying eggs, clothed in baggy lilac pajamas. Bacon is already drying on a floral patterned plate on the counter.

"Have you _seen_ what's happened outside?" he says, grasping her shoulders. "It's covered in white! Wasn't like that yesterday! I mean, _look_! You can't tell me you haven't noticed!"

Chell's brow arches and she grins at him with laughing eyes as if to say, "_You're a goofball; you know that, right?_"

"Oh, don't give me that." He draws up to the kitchen window and settles his hands on the flat of the sill. As he leans against the glass, cold seeps through the wood into the tips of his fingers. No matter where he looks, there's more and more powdery white. "That's not rain. I know what rain is, and it's nothing like it. Not at all. And everyone's outside in the stuff! People don't do that when it's raining. Well, some do, I guess, but most don't." He peers over his shoulder at her. "It's safe, isn't it?"

She's still smiling, but she rolls her eyes (he can practically _hear_ her thoughts) and gives him a nod.

Reassured, he turns back to the world outside. Curiosity gets the best of him and he manages to pry the window open after a moment or two of struggle. Frigid air bursts in, pure white flakes sailing to the floor. Gooseflesh crawls up his skin and the thin hairs on his forearms stand on end.

"Bloody hell," he says, succumbing to a shiver. "That's _cold_."

A white blot floats in and lands on his shirt. Tentatively, he nudges it with his fingertip. It's just as cold as it is outside; perhaps colder. How strange. It breaks apart into smaller bits of white and the nerves in his skin beneath it begin to numb.

"It's… it's wet," he says, brow furrowing with puzzlement. "Oh. It's melting, actually. It's water. Frozen water. Well, I suppose that would make sense, wouldn't it? Ice. Put the stuff in drinks all the time. Doesn't look like ice, though. Ice is transparent. This has color. Well, not that white is really a color. I mean, let's be honest: there are much better colors out there. Why not have it blue?"

Chell has dished breakfast onto two plates. She joins him at the table and pokes him in the shoulder, motioning for him to close the window and sit down.

"I want to go outside," he says.

She jerks her hands in a downward motion: "_Close the window. Now._"

"Right, right, closing. Sorry." With a grunt, he shuts it in a single fluid motion. In spite of the food on the table and the savory scent permeating the room, he presses his cheek against the glass and watches the people below shovel out their sidewalks and vehicles. His breath manifests as fog against the chilled surface and more flakes flurry about the air beyond. "But after breakfast, we can go outside?"

Chell nods in reply, chewing on a piece of bacon. She tugs on his wrist to make him sit, and he does so, albeit reluctantly.

Wheatley has never eaten so fast in his life.

Once the last bit of bacon has been devoured, he jumps up from the table, charges into his room, and dons himself with appropriate winter battlegear: two pairs of socks, thick jeans, long-sleeved shirt and undershirt, knit cap, gloves, and scarf. The finishing touches are his blue coat and lace-up boots. After he's satisfied that he's properly prepared, he bolts out of the apartment with Chell trailing just behind.

"Come on!" His voice echoes up the apartment's main stairwell. He grabs her purple-mittened hand and tugs her down the flights of stairs. "Come on now, let's go! I want to see!"

When he opens the complex's door, he's awestruck.

It's so much better than looking through a window. Everything is submerged in white. No road, no sidewalks, no porches or front door steps; pure, cold blankets of the stuff as far as he can possibly see. Icicles hang like frozen fingers from the trees that line the complex, glittering as crystal in sunlight, and footprints of all kinds mark where the sidewalks used to be.

"Amazing," he murmurs. He leans down and sinks his hand into it, finding it to be as cold and damp as in the flat. It's soft, malleable, but falls apart if not packed together. "What is this, anyway? Too different for ice."

Chell bends down. She takes a finger and runs it through the white, parting it.

"_Snow_," she writes in the—well, snow.

"Brilliant," says Wheatley.

He absorbs the bite of the air and the soft kisses of the feathery flakes against his red-flushed cheeks. His breath curls up in columns of smoky vapor and he's so incredibly astounded at how beautiful everything's become overnight.

He's about to head out into the winter wonderland when feels something bop him in the shoulder.

"Hey, what was—" Snow splits apart upon his coat and crumbles to the ground. When he looks up, he notices her laughing behind a violet mitten. "Oi, you threw that at me, didn't you?"

Chell shakes her head, a devious grin curving her mouth, and she darts off the stoop and into the snow, leaving tiny footprints behind.

"Get back here!" he shouts, scrambling after her. Snow is much harder to move in, however—he hadn't really accounted for that; poor planning on his part—and so he sort of tumbles into her and knocks her into a pile of snow instead.

She's pressed beneath him, long hair splayed across soft, glistening white, her knit cap covered in snow. His breaths are heavy, a burst of adrenaline pumping through him, and he can feel her move with each inhale. He's now acutely aware of how close they are, of how she feels, of the rich pink that's coloring in her face, of how gorgeous her smile is.

"Got you," he breathes.

She hooks her arms around his neck, leans toward him, and kisses the tip of his nose. Her lips are warm and he finds himself stunned, speechless, wrapped up in the vibrant blue of her eyes and in the rapid rhythm in his chest.

Chell pats his shoulders with her mittens. It's a signal for him to move. He manages to clamber to his feet and help her up with shaky hands, but he's still enraptured and can't seem to make himself budge from his spot.

Wheatley decides that he likes snow, unlike its unfrozen counterpart.

Chell beckons him to follow her with a contagious grin.

Yes. He likes it very, very much.


	20. Prompt 019

**Prompt 019: "I was wondering what would happen if Wheatley encounters Machiavelli as a human."**

Chell has a black plastic bookshelf tucked into the corner of the den and it's full to bursting. It looks like she's long since gave up trying to organize the mess; there is no method, no sorting, only titles mixed about and books piled on top of one another, shoved in haphazardly as a second row along the shelf.

Wheatley assumes she's collected them from the thrift store or perhaps some sort of discount shop. He knows Chell is very practical, and if she can spend less on something and get away with it, he's sure she's all for it.

One particularly dreary day while she's at work, Wheatley has decided that daytime telly is _far_ too boring to merit sitting on the couch for three hours, and so he finds himself kneeling by the shelf, legs bowed out in plaid pajamas, thumbing curiously through the spines.

"Let's see here, what've we got, what have we got… Ah, Lord of the Rings. Heard that was a good one. Solid read. The Belgariad. Mm, not sure what that is. Looks interesting, though. American Gods… odd name. The Princess Bride? Might have to see what that's about."

He mumbles to himself and pushes paperbacks and hardbacks aside until he pulls out a black, leather-bound book. The words "_The Prince: Machiavelli_" are embossed upon the spine in what looks to be golf leaf. It's a very impressive copy.

"Machiavelli? Ha, what are the bloody odds?" He chuckles at himself and pops it into the crook of his arm as he places a hand on his knee and rises to his feet. "I don't believe it. I mean, really. Sort of like the world's having a laugh. Wonder where she picked this up."

Wheatley plods to the sofa, plops down, and settles in. After examining the cover for a moment, he then opens the book, the smooth leather beneath the pads of his willowy fingers, and turns to the first page.

In large, bold print, centered of the yellowed page, reads the word "_Introduction_." He skims the paragraphs below, eyes darting. From what he can gather, it seems like someone's put a bit of a biography about Machiavelli before the rest of his book. He certainly didn't know that the bloke's full name was long and crazy. Niccolò di Bernardo dei Machiavelli. What a mouthful. And born _centuries_ ago in Florence, wherever that is. Oh—Italy. Probably shouldn't have skipped that part. Sort of important.

When Chell comes home, he's still buried between the pages, soaking in and parsing the words to the best of his ability. He notices her when she peers over the top of the book with an inquisitive stare, long hair falling across the words.

"Hello," he says with a sheepish smile. "Hope you don't mind me borrowing it. I'll give it back. Just saw that it's—well, Machiavelli. Don't know if you got it as a joke or something—hilarious, by the way; side-splitting—but I was bored and you weren't here and so thought I'd give it a go. Hope that's all right."

Chell shrugs in reply, but her mouth tugged in this subtle smirk that makes his heart somersault.

"But you know," says Wheatley, reaching out to ghost his thumb across her lips, "really, I still don't see what all the fuss is about."


	21. Prompt 020

**Prompt 020: "I've been craving (more) Chelley fluff-smut lately. So here's the prompt: Wheatley sees Chell naked for the first time. Can be as NSFW (or not NSFW) as you'd like it to be."**

Wheatley's first encounter with a half-naked lady resulted in him being shoved out of a room and ignored for two days straight until he recited a whole page length apology for barging in unannounced.

His second encounter is far, far different.

Wheatley steps out of the shower. Dripping wet and steaming from the hot water, he nabs the towel on the rack and begins to meticulously dry himself off: hair, shoulders, arms, chest, hips, legs, toes. After he's satisfied, he cinches the towel around his waist and reaches for his pajamas. When his hand grabs nothing on the edge of the sink, he blinks, confused, and then—_oh_—he must have left them back on his bed.

"I'm really not with it today," he says, rubbing an eye with the inside of his wrist. "Not enough sleep, I guess. Should try to turn in early tonight. Maybe that'll help. Probably will. Memory retention or some nonsense."

On a quest for his clothes, Wheatley leaves the bathroom and heads into his room. Upon entering, he finds that they are not, in fact, on his bed, but rather in a heap on the floor.

"Now, how did you get down there?" He huffs, bends down, and scoops them up into his arms in a bundle of plaid navies and whites. On the way out, he notices that his comb and glasses are still on the dresser, and so he swipes those up as well. "Bloody things," he mutters, pushing the frames up his nose. "I swear, sometimes I think we're haunted. Always finding stuff like this. Mad."

Wheatley exits his room and turns to the right only to meet the face of the closed bathroom door.

"Okay," says Wheatley, brow knit, "I'm pretty sure I left that open. Almost positive, actually. This is starting to get weird. Moving clothes, teleporting combs. Now we have self-closing doors. I'm as accepting of paranormal activity as the next bloke, but really now, this is getting out of hand."

Forcing down a swallow, clothes guarded against his chest, he reaches out for the doorknob. With a twist, it gives way and opens wide.

Now, Wheatley is somewhat acquainted with human anatomy. He's well aware of his own and what sorts of things it's capable of, but when it comes to the opposite sex, he has a rather rudimentary understanding. There are some obvious differences, of course, mostly the whole chest bit and the nice wide hips, but the finer details? Not so up to speed.

While he's not one hundred percent on all of the quirks of the female body, he's quite sure there is absolutely nothing paranormal about Chell with most of her clothes off.

She's standing on the bath mat, her back to him, pulling her shirt over her head. Her toned legs are slightly apart and she has her weight shifted to the right, curving her body in a pleasing contrapposto. Fine lines of definition run up her calves, climb her thighs, and structure her arms.

Wheatley's jaw does this peculiar thing where it slacks without warning, and he has to consciously tighten it so he's not breathing through his mouth. His eyes climb up the backs of her legs and settle on the fine shape of her rear, one of the last spaces that's still covered.

Her shirt has tumbled to the floor in a pool by her feet. Chell turns about, sensing his presence, and her hands immediately cross over her chest—which, Wheatley finds, is pleasantly bare.

Chell can't speak, but she doesn't need to. Her face does all the talking. Wheatley can hear it now: "_What are you DOING? GET OUT!_"

But he doesn't. His feet have transmuted into metal and his legs have become stone. His heart is thumping in the back of his mouth and his face is hot and there is an inexplicable heat that churns below his belly.

Wheatley has said a lot of stupid things in his life. He doesn't have the best track record when it comes to thinking on his feet. He also does not have a particularly effective filter between his brain and his mouth. There are dozens of thoughts that are spinning about his head, thoughts like _Oh god she's going to kill me_ and _I'm seriously going to die_ and _She looks so different than me_ and _Her body is incredible_, but the one that spills out of his mouth is:

"Bloody hell, you're beautiful."

And apparently that was the right thing to say, because her expression lessens from "_You are going to regret this_" to "_I'm sorry, what was that? I don't think I heard right_." The tension slips out of her shoulders and although her arms still cross in front of her breasts, she looks much less, well, murderous.

Wheatley notices an odd tightness in his groin. He swallows, adam's apple dipping, and he glances down to find that his, erm—_anatomy_—has picked a less than ideal time to present itself.

Chell seems to have noticed as well. Her eyes focus on his face, but seem flick southward every second or so.

With a nervous laugh, he opts to hold his pajamas over it in hopes that it will go away on its own.

"Sorry," he says at last, taking a step back. "I—I'll definitely be going now. Sorry. Ha, you know, we really should get a working lock on this thing. To, well, avoid these kinds of situations in the future. Not that I would want to avoid them entirely! Just—well. You. I meant what I said. Um, about you. You know what I said. Sorry. Again."

As he's shrinking away, Chell is approaching him. He recognizes the determination upon her face, mouth thinned and brow creased, and if his heart weren't already pounding double time, it sure as hell would be now.

She reaches out for him and there is a wracking shiver that plants itself at the bottom of his backbone when she's fully exposed. She tugs at the towel around his waist with the hook of her forefinger, coaxing it undone.

"What are you doing," he says, pressing the bundle of pajamas very close. He can't stop staring at her, at her hips, at her breasts; there is an electric current of _must touch must feel_ jolting through his veins and he has no idea what's going on or how to stop it.

Chell's eyes sweep up and down his lanky body. She bites into her lower lip, and the ache inside of him sharpens.

"Seriously," he says, "I—I don't know what you're doing."

She doesn't seem concerned. Instead, she takes his free hand in hers and brings it around to her side, pressing his palm flat against her skin.

Such _warmth_. He's not sure what's happening, but he's positive she wouldn't be guiding him to touch her if he were in trouble. Wheatley sucks in a jagged breath and slopes his hand down to her hip, cupping there, thumb testing the elasticity of the pair of black panties that still cover her. In response, she ropes her fingers around the waistband of her underwear, shimmies them off, and then he's free to feel unhindered. There's a thatch of dark hair below, like him, but there is a distinct difference in anatomy. He's swimming in heat and very hard and not exactly sure what he's allowed to touch, and so he keeps his hand upon her hip, squeezing softly.

Chell is closer now, close enough that he can feel her breathing against his chest. She nudges against the pajamas with her thigh, and before he can register what's happening, she bats the clothes from his grip; both the pajamas and the towel join her shirt on the floor.

And then she's bringing his other hand around her as she comes flush with his body, pressing her skin so very close. She feels so _good_ and when her belly rubs against the stiffness between his legs he grips her tighter and moans.

"You need to tell me what's happening," he breathes, watching her as she guides his hands upward, upward, up the ladder of her ribs and toward her breasts. "I mean, it feels amazing, so don't think I want to stop, because I don't—u-unless you want to, of course, I just don't understand—I don't—ahh—"

Wheatley eats his words when his palms meet soft skin. She cradles his hands against her and his thumbs brush against the raised peaks of her nipples. There's a knowing smile that curves her lips, and the warmth and the closeness and the touch is driving him insane.

"You feel incredible," he says.

A mischievous smile crosses Chell's lips and she squeezes overtop his hands before pulling away. He watches her as she leans down to turn on the faucet in the tub. The sound of running water plays an anxious note down his spine, but when he sees her signal him into the shower with the flick of her hand coupled with a sultry grin, it's completely forgotten.

"I'm—well, I'm already clean, you know," says Wheatley, awkwardly pushing aside the curtain and stepping in. His glasses sit on the side of the sink. "S'what I was doing before this. Just popped out because I forgot my clothes. So I don't really need another. Quite clean. Spotless, even."

Chell pulls up on the shower switch. Warm water drenches them both, but what he notices is how it pours down the curves of her body. She peers over her shoulder at him, wet hair cascading down her back, one eyebrow raised.

"N-not that I mind another!" he amends.

Chell's shoulders shake with silent laughter. She turns, droplets dropping across her face, and her small hands reach up to frame his jaws. He can feel her breasts against his skin and it makes him harder and throb with—with _want_.

His mouth is open again and he's about to ask what she's doing because god if he knows, but before he can, she pulls him down.

There is a brief moment where he can see into the pale blue of her eyes. He sees the little creases as she smiles, the delight in her face, the water running down. Her fingers coax him near, gentle and soft, and she presses her lips against his.

The warmth and the water wash over him. Wheatley can't hold back anymore, and so encompasses her in his arms, reveling in the contact, the touch, the heat, and he holds her close.


	22. Prompt 021

**Prompt 021: "Would you be interested in writing a warm up about Wheatley experiencing a limb falling asleep for the first time?"**

Chell makes sounds when she sleeps.

Wheatley has never noticed before. Then again, he's not exactly been in a position to notice. It's when she begins curling up with him in the evenings on the couch that he realizes just how often it happens.

He stretches out upon his back, head on a cushion, and she nestles on top of him, her face buried just so into the place above his collarbone. The telly flickers with prime time sitcoms and the evening sunset peers through the curtains, casting delicate shades of summer wines. Her cheek rests against the column of his neck; he gets shivers from the warmth of her breath kissing his skin.

She must dream. Sometimes she moves, or trembles, or groans. Sometimes she twists and soft noises well up out of her throat. Sometimes she burrows against him, eyes clenched, as if he's become her bastion against the tendrils of darkness that creep under the casing of her skull.

Wheatley folds his arms around her in a cocoon. He brings her close and nuzzles into the dark locks of her hair, pressing a kiss to her head. "It's all right," he says.

It's wishful thinking, he knows, it really is, but he hopes his voice might be something she can grab onto and focus on, something that might help guide her from her nightmares. He likes to think he's her friend (he's not sure _what_ they are, if he's honest), and he's certain that's the sort of thing friends do: friends help one another, no questions asked.

A quiet murmur of anguish comes from the small woman nested above him. Her hands dig into his jumper and squeeze.

"You're all right," he whispers, bringing his fingers up and down the curve of her backbone. "You're okay. Nothing's got you now. You're safe, love. It's a dream."

After a while, the shows and voices on the telly blur together. He tries to stay awake, but the warmth of her body and the rhythm of her breathing lull him into slumber. When he comes to, it's somewhere around eight or nine. He opens his eyes; the den is dark with only the glare of the flickering screen.

It's then that he realizes he can't feel his right arm. It's tucked between Chell's side and the back cushions of the couch. There's no sensation, no body heat, no soft fabric; there's _nothing_.

Panic pumps through the chambers of his heart.

"Hey, wake up," says Wheatley, nudging her with his other hand. "Wake up. It's kind of important. Very important, actually. Something's wrong."

Chell groans into his neck and snuggles closer, her back pushing his dead arm further into the sofa. It prickles like small pinprick needles sinking into his skin.

"Oi, come on, wake up," he implores. He lifts a leg to disturb her balance. "I do love this, all nice and cozy together, I really do, but this is urgent. Life or death! I mean, what if it spreads to the rest of me? What if I'm dying? Arms aren't supposed to feel like this! Well, at least I don't think so. But it's _never_ done this before! Always been able to feel properly until now."

Chell finally rouses. Scrunching her eyes shut, she grimaces as she lifts herself off his chest to straddle his waist. She takes a moment to collect her bearings: the darkness, the rambling of the telly, the agitated man beneath her.

And then she gives him this withering look through half-lidded eyes, something to the tune of, "_This had better be damn important_."

"Hey, look, I'm being honest," he says. "I can't feel a thing." He pokes his arm for emphasis. "See? Nothing. Well, there's this needley sort of—oh, that feels weird. What are you doing? I don't—no, no, stop! What if you _break_ it?"

Chell is lifting up his dead arm, her thumbs rubbing along his bicep. She massages out the odd, almost painful tingling in a gentle circular motion. She starts to work down the full length of his arm at a leisurely pace, and as she goes, she makes sure to apply ample amounts of pressure.

His arm is being restored. Somehow?

He's not sure what's happening, but it's really freaking him out.

"Ow, ow, how did—oh, god, that's—that's bloody _weird_. How are you even doing this? Seriously, I—ow—ahhhh—this is crazy!"

She's on his forearm now, kneading away, and she seems particularly disinterested in his commentary. When she reaches his hand, she rubs the inside of his palm with her thumbs, crissing across his lifelines. The tendons and bones roll beneath her dexterous fingers.

As the prickling fades and sensation begins to register in his nerves once again, he becomes acutely aware of the heat of her body. He's aware of how she's holding his hand, of how she's sitting; he's aware of she how she's smirking at him with half of her illuminated in the white-blue flicker of the television light like he really _is_ a moron but it's not demeaning at all; no, he can tell! He knows that look, he really does, and she smiles at him like this when he's tripped over something or when he's burnt the eggs again or when he's waving at her across the crowd and shouting, "Hey, LADY!" at the top of his lungs.

Wheatley's arm has been revived and his face feels pleasantly warm. Biting his lower lip, he laces his fingers with hers and gazes up at her from the cushion. He can't help but admire her; she's strong and brilliant and… and gorgeous.

The knot behind his breastbone beats faster.

"Thank you," he says.

Chell shakes her head in reply. Her free hand draws close to his mouth and the pads of her fingers trace the contours of his lips.

He kisses one, and the flutter between his lungs could lift him off the sofa when she smiles.


	23. Prompt 022

**Prompt 022: "Wheatley touching himself for the first time?"**

There are many things about the human body that puzzle Wheatley. He's used to everything serving a purpose. Machines are quite big on functionality, and his previous body was all about it. Nothing was there just because or just for show. Although, they _did_ tell him he would die if he performed certain actions… but that doesn't really count, does it? They lied about it. They lied a lot, actually. Everything still served a purpose, even if they lied about it. Liars.

Humans, though. _Humans_. Humans are a train wreck. There are things that are required for basic function, of course—he doesn't have a problem with those, not at all—but others just seem so unnecessary and pointless. It's ridiculous. And quite frankly, he has no idea why they even exist.

Erections happen to be one of those things.

The first time it happens, Wheatley is barely awake. The sun seeps under the curtains in a blinding pool and he is convinced it is _far_ too bloody bright for anyone right now, and so he rolls onto his side and pulls the sheets over his face. As he settles in, he becomes aware that there's this tight sort of ache below. Weird. That's new. And his decision to escape the sun has somehow made it worse.

Drowsy and confused, he feels down the plane of his belly with his palm. Stomach's fine; nothing there. Some skin, some hair. That's good. All normal. Nothing out of the ordinary. But that's not where that feeling's coming from, is it? No. A bit lower then.

When Wheatley discovers that there is actually something in his trousers, he bolts up and shoves down the blankets in a panic.

"_What_? Oh, you're joking. You have got to be kidding me. It does this as well? _How_?"

He plucks his waistband between thumb and forefinger and pulls it away. What he's met with confirms his suspicions. It is not a foreign entity, but very much a part of him—just different. It's certainly never done this before. It's thicker and bigger, and it's, well… up.

"How is this even possible?" he says, staring down in disbelief. "Seriously. I mean, what happened? I was sleeping. Wasn't doing anything at all. What is it supposed to do?"

Gingerly, he attempts to press it down with the pad of his thumb. He knows he shouldn't be surprised, but it feels much different than before. It's still sort of velvety, but whatever's happened to it has made it stiff, rigid, and the skin isn't so pliable. It still has some give; it just puts up some resistance, like the flesh at the juncture of his thumb and forefinger.

Wheatley bites his lip as it pops back up again. Determined bugger.

"There's got to be a way to make it normal again," he mutters. "Can't rightly go around like this. Looks ridiculous."

He draws a breath and gives himself time to inspect it further. Framing it with the shape of his willowy hand, he runs his fingers up the sides. There are veins, he notices; those certainly weren't there before. Or perhaps they were? He's never actually bothered to look. Not exactly the most interesting place to poke around. Rather sensitive.

Wheatley tries to ignore the tension below and tilts it to the side in hopes of finding… well, something. There's got to be something he's missing. There must be a reason this has happened, he thinks, though he can't imagine what. It seems bizarre to have a part of you just up and change all willy nilly.

Sensitive is right, though. Sensitive is very right. His fingers brush the tip in his exploration and muscles twitch inside and outside of him in a delicious twist and it _moves_. While that should worry him—the moving, that is, because seriously, _what the bloody hell_—the spark of pleasure that struck through him is far more interesting.

"Absolutely mad," he murmurs. "Humans deal with this?"

His fingers have curled around it at the base, a testing grip, he moves upward with a gentle stroke. He can feel his nerves ignite and the aching tightens but it's not a bad ache, no; it feels _good_. A shiver climbs through him, pouring down his backbone, and he sucks in a sharp breath as his hand slides its way back down. There's this small whisper scratching in the back of his mind that says he should probably stop. He should go find Chell, ask what's wrong, ask what his body's doing, because he honestly has no idea what's happening and this is completely different and not definitely normal—but god, it feels _good_.

Wheatley's eyes have fluttered shut and his spine has arced backward. Breathing has become more of a chore than it was, and he can feel the rhythm of his heartbeat throb in his neck. The heat inside of him is coiling; he's become so much thicker and harder and he doesn't know what he's doing but the raw pleasure of his strokes only short-circuits his mind.

There's a blurry conglomerate of her face that trumps all of his fragmented thoughts. It sharpens into the shape of her body, the slopes and curves and just—_god_, the way she is. There is powerful desire there, he notices; amongst everything else, he just _wants_ her there more than anything in the world, and he hasn't the faintest idea why.

"God," he whispers, "god, what is this? I—ah, that's good, that—that feels—_ahhh_."

Wheatley bites the back of his right knuckle to quiet himself as he continues to pump with his other hand. He's so focused on how everything feels, how hot and how incredible it is, and how it's drawing closer somehow, building, how he wants her, how he _needs_ this, and when the pleasure peaks, he breathes a hoarse moan and becomes so overwhelmed with that shaking, consuming sensation of release that he crashes back into the headboard, a trembling wreck.

After a brief moment of recovery and reflection, Wheatley peers down at his belly. There's sticky white mess on his hand, his stomach, his trousers—everywhere.

"Ugh." He grimaces and flexes his fingers, watching the warm fluid drip. "That was… well, that was amazing. More than amazing, if I'm honest. But if this going to happen afterward, I… well, I don't actually know if it's worth it."

Taking care not to let his hand touch the sheets, he leans forward and curls back into a sit. He swings his legs off the side of the bed and stares curiously down at his groin.

"Well," says Wheatley. "At least it's normal again."


	24. Prompt 023

**Prompt 023: "Maybe something angsty? Maybe Chell ending up getting hurt and having to go to the hospital and Wheatley being scared that she almost died or something?"**

Wheatley doesn't see the car.

He doesn't see the make or the model or the chipping paint. He doesn't see the shadow of the driver through the passenger side window and he doesn't see it peel away down the road.

What he sees is her on the ground, crumpled and limp. He sees the periwinkle of her jumper and the denim of her jeans. He sees the knot of her dark hair spilled in a pool by her head, and he sees her arm bent in a way it should never be.

Everything slows. The crowd ticks by in half time. There is a blur in his vision as he leaps from the curbside and plunges into the intersection.

Chell is lying there, still, painted white blocks of the crosswalk beneath. His knees kiss the asphalt and small pebbles stick to the meat of his palms as he kneels beside her.

He can't hear his own voice. There's a din that ripples the film of his eardrums and all he can do is push sound out of his throat. He thinks it's something like "Are you okay?" or "Someone help" or "You're alive, please be alive," but he doesn't know. His mouth is open and pouring something out, but the world seems submerged beneath the water, beneath rolling waves, and all he hears is a muffled roar.

Wheatley reaches out with shaking hands. He's afraid. Terrified. She has to be okay. She has to be. _Has_ to be. Cradling her, he pulls her head into his lap. She's still, still breathing, but there's blood coming from somewhere, warm and wet and red. A cold puncture of panic harpoons through his innards.

Gently, he cups her cheek. Her skin is cold from the autumn chill. Her eyes are closed, unmoving, her face expressionless.

There is no determination there. No tenacity. No iron will.

Nothing.

Minutes pass before he realizes that someone else is there, cutting in, trying to pull her away. He thinks he shouts at whoever it is, the shadow, the entity, but he can't be sure. Nothing registers quite right. There's anger and horror and there is a painful tightness centered in the hollow of his chest, nesting between his lungs.

She's being lifted. There are more now, carrying her.

Wheatley is holding her hand. His grip is so tight. He wants her to squeeze back like she always does. He wants her to peer up from the white bed of plastic and metal they've placed her on and give him the sorts of looks she does when he's overreacting or when he's convinced himself something is wrong or when he's panicking over absolutely nothing.

One of the others pulls him back by the shoulder. There's something being said, something about transporting her to the hospital, but it doesn't sink in. He still clasps her hand. He doesn't want to let go. He just wants to be with her. He wants her to be okay. She _has_ to be.

She's too strong to die.

Somehow, they've ushered him into the back of the ambulance. The ride is a haze and he stays huddled by her stretcher, watching the figures in coats and scrubs as they work. There are needles and tubes and pouches of transparent liquid, and he wishes so badly he could reach out for her again because he _needs_ to feel her and to know she's still all right, but he doesn't want to be in the way.

Wheatley almost killed her once. If he somehow managed to cause it with his own desperate stupidity amongst medical emergency staff, he would never forgive himself. And so he watches, and waits, and a knot makes its home in the back of his throat as the green line of the heart monitor spikes across a black screen.

At the hospital, they make him wait in a stale white room with tables and chairs and old magazines. He doesn't sit. He doesn't read. There's pacing and pawing at the counter and pleading with the lady at the desk in hopes that she'll tell him how she's doing. (No, she doesn't know. Go sit down!)

When they fetch him at last, he's brought to another white room with white curtains, white lights, and white floors. Chell is asleep, wrapped in layered blankets, a tube of some sort attached to the bend of one arm. The other, the hurt, the never-should-be-bent is encased in some sort of sling, suspended above.

They close the door behind him and he rushes to her side. His bony fingers enfold her tiny hand and he blinks back tears as he hears the soft sounds of her breathing. Her ribcage rises and falls in a delicate rhythm beneath the snowy blankets, slow and easy, and he can't remember a time where he's ever been this thankful.

"I'm so glad," he whispers. "I thought you were gone."

Wheatley kneels by her bed, knees against the cold tile. He presses his face to the back of her hand, warmth and comfort and _home_, and he kisses the slope of her wrist. He laces his fingers through hers, craving reassurance.

It's weak. It's small and fragile and barely there, but there is a squeeze.

The pressure registers in the webs of his nerves. He looks up, and she's smiling, smiling at him from the plane of her hospital bed. She's strong, she's stronger than anything; she's amazing and incredible and he doesn't know how many times she's fought death but no matter what, she's come out on top.

Wheatley squeezes back, choking with tears and laughter, and he doesn't let go.


	25. Prompt 024

**Prompt 024: "In follow up to prompt 008, chapter 9, What about a little something in which Wheatley returns the favor? Maybe by putting that overactive tongue of his to good use."**

Chell is so intricate.

Wheatley is constantly amazed at how her body is structured. There's taut muscle and flowing shape and soft skin, and everything slopes in such a way that he's compelled to look. Whether it's a simple walk down the block, or when she's by the stove with a ladle in hand, or when she's sprawled out across the couch, he can't help but stare. He's no expert in art by any means, but he's positive she should be sculpted out of pallid marble, draped in white sheets, and poised on display.

When he touches her, it's always on the hands, the wrists, the dip in her back, or the gentle curve of her hips. He wants more, of course—god, does he ever—but he's always afraid he's going to do something wrong. After all, this is a very new and recent thing, all of this sudden touching, and even though he's overcome with delight at the fact, he's equally as terrified. He's not sure if it's because he's so bloody tall, or if it's because she's so incredibly small, or if it's perhaps because of some other latent insecurity that's tucked underneath his skull, but he fears he might somehow cause her harm.

And… well. Hurting her is the absolute last thing he wants.

So when she squeezes his butt when he's making tea or when she curls her small fingers around the length of his cock and kisses the line of his backbone after he walks out of the shower, he freezes up and his mind flickers white and he doesn't know what to do. He can't rightly do the exact same with her—different anatomy and all that nonsense—so he finds himself wishing he knew more about how human bodies work.

And it's unfortunate, but it feels like he's missing a big chunk of information when it comes to this kind of closeness. Sure, all sorts of data were available when he had his core-like chassis, and even more when he inhabited Hers, but he didn't exactly peruse them as he should have. None of it was particularly interesting or pertinent at the time. He did take care of humans, but the countless texts on their social rituals and the finer workings of their bodies just didn't take precedence over his other tasks. Everything has left him with rather vague concepts of intimacy and flashes of what he thinks might be memories.

It's frustrating. He wants to touch her and kiss her and just… _be_ with her, but there's this gnawing feeling that pinches at the back of his neck. When he wants to slide a hand down the back of her thigh and cup her rear, he doesn't. When he's tempted to pull her into his lap and trace his mouth down her neck in elaborate patterns, he doesn't.

He wishes he weren't so tentative. He wishes he weren't so afraid of being wrong, of hurting her, of screwing everything up. Because really, there's only so many times a bloke can wind up being wrong, right?

And so one evening, when she's nestled with him on the couch after a long day, he finally decides to swallow his fear.

The den is dark with curtains pulled, and the television's glare flushes the gentle shape of her face with flickering light. The pressure of her leaning against his side is pleasant and warm. He notices a familiar ache in his groin and his heart pumps liquid anxiety. They've been watching the same show for half an hour, but he honestly doesn't know what's happening. He's too consumed.

Wheatley starts by bringing an arm around her as he's seen the blokes in his shows do. When she snuggles closer, confidence snakes behind his breastbone and he leans down to nuzzle against her temple. He can feel her tense beneath his nose; he notices her watching him from the corner of her eye.

"Sorry," says Wheatley. "Didn't get you, did I? Sorry, if I did. Didn't mean to."

He thumbs the crescent beneath her eye. It flutters, and he catches a glimpse of the telly's light in the pale blue of her iris. His heart thumps a bit harder.

"It's just, well, I… I like this. I like it a lot, actually. Being here, that is. Being here with you. It's nice. And so are you. Um, well, not exactly _nice_, that's not—no, no, not like that! You _are_ nice—but that's not the word I'm looking for, I just…"

Wheatley sighs and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. If only he didn't get so bloody tongue-tied.

"You're pretty," he says. "Sorry. Just wanted to say that. And now I have. So there it is."

Chell brings her shoulders close and runs a hand through her loose locks of hair, as if embarrassed. He can't see very well in the dim light, but he thinks he can see color in her cheeks.

Come on, Wheatley, he thinks. Come on now. You're great at talking. Brilliant at it. Just bloody _talk_ to her.

"I've—I've been doing a bit of thinking. About the other day. When you, you know, helped. With this." He palms the stiffness in his pajama bottoms for her to see. His face is hot and he swears the thrum in his chest is so loud she can hear it. "I haven't exactly returned the favor. Sorry about that, by the way. There's a good reason for it, though. I've just—I've been nervous. Really nervous, actually. Probably more than I should be, come to think of it."

Wheatley fidgets and bites at the flesh on the inside of his lower lip. She's peering up at him, curious, and her hand rises to meet his that's cupped around her shoulder.

"Don't want to be rude about it or anything. I mean, it does seem a bit selfish, doesn't it? Just sort of… sitting there while it happens. And there you are, doing all the work, and not getting anything in return."

She shakes her head as if to refute what he's said, but he turns her toward him with a long finger against her jaw.

"So I guess what I'm saying is… I don't know what to do, but I'd like to learn. If that's possible. I'm not exactly sure how we'd go about it, if I'm honest. Maybe you could show me? What you like, what feels good. I have no idea how you know with me—not complaining! It's fantastic, really—but I guess it's easier to figure out, isn't it? What I've got is pretty simple. Or at least it seems like it. You're… different. But no, not in a bad way, so don't take it like that. It's just—I think I'd like it if I could… if I could make you feel as good as you make me feel. Is that all right?"

Chell tilts her head to the side. Her lips are curved in a slight smile, but she doesn't seem upset or offended. After a moment of appraising him with silent glances, she nods, and breaks into a full grin.

"Oh, good." Wheatley releases a shaky exhale. "Honestly, I was afraid you'd say no. Ha, I feel stupid now. Making a big deal out of nothing. Well, not that this is nothing. Didn't mean that. It's quite the opposite. I mean, this is pretty si—"

God, her mouth feels incredible. There is a soft moan that pulls out of his throat and he feels his cock twitch as she climbs onto his hips to straddle him. She has her arms cinched around his neck, one hand sifting through his short hair, and as she settles atop him, she nips at his lip and smiles.

"Oh, wow," he breathes. "I—god, you're very good at this. Extremely. I mean, well, you can feel, right? You're right there, after all. And I just—I always get like this around you. Always. All… all hard and aching."

He brings his hands along her hips and squeezes. There's a glint in her eyes, smoky and hot, and the lust threading through his veins compels him to touch and feel and taste and—

"I want you to show me," he says against her mouth. He slides his hands down to grab her ass, coaxing her against his erection. The pleasure that knits through his nerves makes his hips jerk. "Show me how I can make you like this. I-if you would. Please. I want to know."

Chell's expression is this peculiar amalgam of what seems like frustration and desire. She's staring at him, lips parted, breathing hard. Another kiss, _so warm_, softer this time, and then she lifts herself and turns about in his lap so she's settled on the cushion between his legs. Leaning back, she lies against his chest, her head resting by his collarbone.

"All right," he says, adjusting himself more comfortably, "whenever you're ready. I suppose you—well, you could let me watch. Or maybe use my hands? I can probably reach more than you can. If you're comfortable with it. If not, that's fine. Up to you. Learning experience."

Chell pauses for a moment, as if deciding, and then she brings one hand over his left and guides it down to her thigh, giving it a pat before drawing away. He thinks he knows what she means, so he just strokes her there, thumb and fingers cupping and massaging gently.

He's unsure of when exactly she began, because when he looks down, she has two fingers between her legs, a bit lower than where his cock would be, rubbing in slow circles. Her trousers are still on, though, and it confuses him.

Wheatley taps her thigh. "Wouldn't you like those off, love?" His other hand pulls at her waistband. "I think it would help. Might feel a bit better. At least it does for me."

She glances up at him, a shy smirk, before lifting herself. Wheatley hooks his thumbs on the fabric and pulls—down, down, sliding down the muscle of her lovely legs.

"Gorgeous," he murmurs, and he sucks in a breath when she sits back down against him. He's insanely hard and having her so close is driving him crazy, but he is intent on _learning_ this, and so he takes the opportunity to bring his hand down her thigh once more.

As he strokes her bare skin, he notices that he now has a better view. Her panties are still on, but they are might tighter, much closer than baggy pajama bottoms, and he can see exactly where her fingers have started to circle. He watches, curious and turned on, and he notes her gradual pace and how her forefinger stays to one particular spot, rubbing through the black cotton.

Chell makes a soft sound, quiet and breathless, and she arches into him. Her body is so small but there is so much _power_ there; her strength is evident as she forces herself against his chest. Fingers stroking closer to the juncture of her leg and groin, Wheatley presses his lips to her jawline, trailing slow, open-mouthed kisses down the slope.

"Can I try?" he asks, his hand overlapping hers with a feathery touch. "I really… really would like to feel. If that's all right."

There is a moment of pause when she pulls her fingers away and succumbs to a shudder. He waits for her permission, and when she gives it—a slight nod—he feels a swell of thrill curl amongst his ribs. Slowly, he allows his hand to drop. It settles on the place where she was so focused, and with the pad of his index finger, he traces down the front of her panties.

The first thing he notices is oh, wow, it's _damp_. It's almost like how his pants get when he's been hard for so long, and there's just a bit that beads at the tip and smears along the inner fabric, but oh, this is so much more, so much _wetter_, and—

Oh, there's this little valley there, isn't there? Sort of dips down, all nice and pleasant, and… oh, yes, it gets even wetter below. But that's not quite where she was circling, was it? No, it was higher, just a little, and so he rubs his finger from the source of the soaked cotton and draws it further up.

He presses gently, exploring, testing, and when she shivers and her hips rock into his hand, he knows he's found the correct place.

"That feel good?" asks Wheatley. He tries his best to mimic her movement and pressure, using the tip of his finger to swirl around her clit. "Am I doing it right?"

Chell nods, seeming dazed.

"Is this all, though? I mean, I feel like there should be more." Wheatley runs his tongue along the back of his teeth in thought as he pokes beneath her panties. "Hard to explain. Just something aah—oh."

For a moment, he has trouble functioning. He becomes very aware of how hard he is, of how close she is, of how good she smells and how warm her body feels, and now of how incredibly, amazingly wet she is. His finger is flush with her skin, soaked, _dripping_, and he can't fathom how much of a turn on it is. He's trying so hard to hang onto a coherent train of thought and it's seriously not working: it's a crazed fog of _This is amazing_ and _What do I do_ and _I want her so BAD_.

"Listen," he says. "Listen, I—I'm not entirely sure what you want or what you don't want, or what this sort of thing might feel like, so just… bear with me. Need a way to say what's good and bad. Just—well, feedback. So we're on the same page. No misunderstandings. All right?"

He feels her nod against his chest. She's shaking, and god he wants to make her tremble.

"Right, okay, how about… all right, how about two short taps for stop? Just real quick, like this—" He demonstrates on her hip with his free hand, "—so they're easy to feel. And maybe a nice squeeze if you like something. Could be any kind of squeeze, soft or rough. Maybe rough if you really like it. But is that all right? Sound good? Same page now?"

She nods again, and he feels her hand move down to apply pressure to his thigh.

Wheatley bites into his lip, and he lets his finger nudge further between her legs. He's marveling at how wet it is, how slick and smooth, and as he slides his fingertip up and down along her folds, pushing them aside, he realizes there is a dip, warm and wet, and the further he explores, the more it seems to coax him in.

"Can I," he breathes. He's circling there, barely pushing; he won't do anything without her permission.

The squeeze on his thigh is quite firm.

He can't help but moan when he sinks in. It's one bit at a time, gentle and slow, but feeling her so wet and soaked and clenching around his finger with each push makes his cock throb with need.

"Oh, you're so _hot_ inside," he rasps. "I never thought… just, wow. You feel _amazing_. God."

When he's in to his final knuckle, he nips her earlobe and begins to draw it out. Chell's back is in a lovely arc, her legs spread wide, her mouth open and shuddering exhales. Her hand is giving his thigh a few good squeezes. As he pulls the tip of his finger out, he smothers her clit with her wetness and circles it once or twice, just enough to make her elicit this soft, shivering, "_Ahhh_."

"Is that good?" he says, though he doesn't need to ask; her body language is shouting paragraphs with the way her shoulders knead into his chest and how her neck tenses and how her ribcage heaves with short, shallow breaths. Regardless, she gives his thigh another squeeze.

Pleased with himself, Wheatley circles it once more before pulling his hand away. She's trembling as he brings the finger coated with her against his nose. He inhales, and there is a thick, musky scent that collides with his senses. Humans can be smelly, sure, but this… this is completely different.

"Mmn, I like that. I like that a lot." Tentatively, he darts his tongue out to give it a taste—and _wow_. Something sparks inside his head and then he's gripping her hips and kissing the space beneath her ear and pressing her close against his cock. "Hold on, love," he says. "Got an idea. Mind getting up for me? Just real quick. Won't be long."

Wheatley guides her with his arms as she lifts herself off the sofa. He watches her struggle to stand in the television light as he rises up behind her, and he frames her hips with his hands to help her balance. Biting at his lip, he tugs at her panties with his thumbs.

"Need these off," he says. "If it's all right. It'll make things easier, I think."

Chell complies, tucking her fingers beneath her underwear. He notices that she purposely rubs against his erection as she shimmies it off, a subtle sway back and forth, and the aching pleasure below his belly sharpens.

"All right," he says, curling an arm about her waist. "Down you go again. Get yourself comfortable."

As she settles in, Wheatley peels off his damp shirt and lets it join her clothes on the floor. He then kneels down, sliding his hands up her calves, the bends of her knees, her thighs, and he grabs her ass and pulls her closer to the edge of the cushion. Her skin is so soft, so warm, and it makes him harder just touching her.

"Right, so if something doesn't feel good," he says, peering up at her from between her legs, "just pat my shoulder or something. Two times, at any point. Okay?"

Chell nods in reply. He can see the shapes of her breasts straining through her small tank top as she breathes and it's driving him crazy. He feels himself twitch in his trousers and… and god, he _really_ wants to touch himself to ease the ache, but he can't, no; this is about _her_ right now, this is about making _her_ feel good, and god damn, he wants that more than anything.

Wheatley grips her thighs, palms pressing against smooth skin, and he lowers himself, drawing close. He has a much clearer view now that her panties aren't in the way, and although everything looks much different than what he's got—lots of gentle curves, wetness, folds of pink—he finds himself being very much attracted to what he sees.

"Lovely," he murmurs, a thick exhale against her.

Chell's hips roll forward, straining, as if she's asking to be touched. The smell is so heady and Wheatley finds it too hard to resist, and so he leans in and covers her in his mouth.

His kisses are somewhat clumsy. He doesn't have a particular technique just yet—still sort of new at this, after all—but he tries to imagine the sorts of things she's done to him. He imagines how her tongue brushes against his the plane of his jaw or how she parts her lips just enough so he can feel the wet of her mouth against the column of his neck, and he tries to mimic that as best he can.

When he lathers his tongue across that small place she was so focused upon before, he feels her fingers weave through his hair, clutching at the roots, and her palms push him closer. He's close enough that the lenses of his glasses touch the thatch of coarse hair between her legs and his nose is buried flush with her skin, drawing in that addicting scent, and bloody hell, if that's not an_ oh yes that's good god please keep at it_, then he doesn't know what is.

And so Wheatley does it again, slower this time, the flat of his tongue on her clit. Chell twists on the sofa, her legs closing over his shoulders, and he moans against her as his hands slide up her thighs and cup her ass. He tries to pick up the pace; he wants to make her feel good, he wants to have her shout and shiver and lose herself, he wants her consumed, he _wants_ _her_, and his tongue swirls so hot and wet and he engulfs her with an open-mouthed kiss just there, exactly where she wants, and then he _sucks_.

God, her fingers are doing absolutely crazy things in his hair. They rub his scalp, tug at the roots, coaxing him forward. Her hips grind beneath his mouth, _oh yes please do_, and he can hear the lovely rhythm of her jagged breathing above. Her entire body is a tightly twisted bundle of trembling limbs, and in spite of being engrossed in her pleasure, Wheatley is very aware of how she moves—hurting her is always a fear.

With a languid lick, he pulls back, much to her protest.

"You all right?" he asks, running his tongue along his lips. "Just, you know, checking in. Seeing how we're doing."

Chell is biting at her lower lip. She glares at him from the sofa and her brow is knit together with frustration. For stopping, he assumes. Or that's what he likes to think, anyhow. The very idea of being able to make her feel like this causes enormous amounts of pride to swell within his chest.

"Oh, don't give me that look," he says with a smirk. "Was just pausing for a moment. I won't stop. Well, I will if you want me to, of course. Stop, that is."

She glowers at him with this expression that screams, "_BUT I DIDN'T_," and she shoves his palms over his eyes.

"Hey now, no need for that," he says, one hand pulling away from her rear. He peels her tiny fingers back and holds them, savoring the warmth and how he's made her sweat. "Just wanted to make sure you were okay. That's not a crime, is it? This is pretty new. Well, for me, at least. Checking in is a reasonable thing to do, I think."

Chell rolls her eyes and tugs her arms away, folding them beneath her breasts. He notices how she pushes them up, how the fabric of her shirt bunches around them. He notices how she nibbles at her lip and how she's pouting in this incredibly attractive way and _god_ it makes him want her all the more.

Wheatley resumes by bringing his free hand between her legs. He gazes up at her, gauging, and when he starts to press a finger inside of her, he feels the muscles clench and tighten and she's leaning back, eyelids fluttered shut, lips parted. He draws close and breathes against her, and then immerses himself once again: kissing along soft pink, tongue sweeping across her clit, mouth sucking gently. There is a moment where he's working his finger in and out at this gradual pace, slow and teasing, and when her hands clamber for his tousled hair again, he draws it out completely—and pushes two in.

The reaction he receives is pleasure incarnate. Chell is writhing; she grinds against his face and pulls him close and there are vocal sounds that purr from somewhere within her, sounds of broken vowels and consonants, mixed letters stitched together, all tucked between her teeth and wisping out with every breath.

Wheatley's knees are hurting from being bent for so long, but he doesn't care. She tastes incredible and he _loves_ her soft little noises and she just feels so bloody _good_ against his mouth and around his fingers. His mind is full to bursting with compliments and encouragements he can't say, not with his tongue doing all the work, but he settles for a low hum into her skin in hopes all the little things that make her up might translate his thoughts. As he thrusts, he feels her heels dig into his shoulder blades, her knuckles pressing along his scalp, and he wonders just how this feels for her: how his mouth feels, how his fingers feel, if it's good enough, if it's nice enough, if can really give her as much pleasure as she gives him.

He continues to massage her clit, plunging in her with a steady rhythm—she's so wet, amazingly wet, god, he can't bloody stand it—and it takes him by surprise when she moans. He's not sure how, but must be doing something right, because Chell seizes up and there's a mass of convulsions, tightening and pushing and insatiably wet around his fingers. He doesn't know what to do, so he just keeps going, sucking and thrusting, letting her pull his hair and groan and squeeze his neck with her legs.

After several moments, she seems to uncoil, tension unspooling. Her palms spread flat through his hair, stroking as if he were a pet, and he feels two short taps. Anxiety threading through his veins, he immediately stops.

"You okay?" he asks, peering up. Her eyes have this glazed sort of look, he notices; her hair is all over the place and perspiration beads at her brow, a gentle glisten in the television's light. "Did I—was that bad? I didn't hurt you, did I? I hope I didn't. I'm sorry, if I did. I really, _really_ wanted to avoid that."

Chell shakes her head, a smile on her lips. He feels her hands shift to the base of his skull, and she tugs him up toward her. Wheatley stretches himself upward, torso against the cushion, and he lets her curl against him. Her legs cross in the small of his back and her arms clasp about his neck. She's a bit out of breath, he notes, but she's grinning, kissing along his angular jaws, and it takes a moment before he realizes—_oh_.

"Was that…? It was, wasn't it?" Wheatley encompasses her in his arms, and he can't help but smile as she buries her face against his neck. "Ha, I knew it. Solved you! I did, didn't I? That's what it was! Wasn't sure at first. I mean, really, mine is so different and all. Makes a right awful mess. You, though! Wow. That was tremendous."

Chell pulls back and scrunches her face with an incredulous look.

"What?" he asks. "What's that for? Surprised?"

She rolls her eyes and playfully bats him on the shoulder. Wheatley chuckles, rubbing his nose against hers, reveling in the silent giggle she makes. She's warm and all disheveled, and he kisses her, holding her close.

"Don't be so surprised, love," he says against her mouth. "Master hacker here, after all. I pick things up pretty quick!"


	26. Prompt 025

**Prompt 025: "Something with evil Wheatley being tickled! How or why is up to you!"**

GLaDOS is not amused.

Not only has She been ousted from Her body, She has also been shoved into a potato, skewered onto one of the prongs of the Aperture Science Handheld Portal Device, thrust several thousand feet into the maw of Enrichment Center, and all with no choice but to rely on the tenacious monster She tried to kill. Twice.

And now She's below Her room—_Her room_, a room that has been repurposed with his utter stupidity—about to be killed by the greatest moron that ever lived.

Wonderful.

"So, let's call that three minutes," says Wheatley, voice echoing about the chamber, "and then a minute break, which should leave a leisurely two minutes to figure out how to shut down whatever's starting all the fires."

She can't see him. She's hooked into the port in the breaker room beneath, but She knows he's connected into Her chassis, swaggering yet anxious, and even though She's not fully integrated into Her facility, She can feel the room start to disintegrate; panels disengaging from their proper places, the crackling of fire creeping behind the walls. There's a hum far below, the sound of machines groaning, straining, breaking apart.

The situation is far worse than She's hoped. Not that She was expecting miracles.

"So, anyway, that's the itinerary. Also, I took the liberty of watching the tapes of you killing her—ah, what are you doing? You're… no, stay back. Look, the neurotoxin only works so bloody fast and I haven't had the proper time to release it yet, so I can't exactly—_hey_!"

GLaDOS focuses Her attention on the surface. That… doesn't sound right. There was a plan: Chell was to stun him somehow, and GLaDOS was to send her corrupted cores to attach to Her body in hopes of initiating a core transfer.

This sounds like many things, but it does not sound like the plan.

GLaDOS raises the lift in the breaker room, climbing toward the chamber above. When the hatch opens, what She sees is not something She's comfortable with.

He is writhing. Yes, that's an accurate description, She thinks: _writhing_. He is writhing in Her body, optic shut, handles brought close against the metal of his own spherical chassis. The chest plate below where he's attached and the surrounding wires are being touched by Chell in this odd, fluttering manner. The Aperture Science Handheld Portal Device is on the floor by the heels of her long fall boots, and moreover, the room is still falling apart.

She is tempted to ask what is happening, but his unbridled laughter swells within the room and drowns any hope of using Her 1.1 volts to project Her voice over his.

"Oh, you're—stop, stop, you can't do this, I'm—" His pleas sputter into deep, body-jerking laughs; Her body wriggles as he tries to shrink away from the jumpsuited woman below. "_No_, why are you _doing_ this—ha, I can't—no, stop!"

GLaDOS has no recollection of Her body being so physically sensitive, but with that moron in charge, She shouldn't be surprised something worse has happened.

Oh, wait. It has. Her mistake.

"You are going to—haha, oh god, stop—going to _regret_—no, I didn't even finish telling you about—ha, about my four-part process!"

She catches the glint of Chell's eyes under the harsh chamber lights. The woman winks as she continues to tickle Wheatley.

My, Her processor is _slow_ in this stupid potato. Chell has followed the plan: she's stunned him. And quite expertly, at that.

"I'll get the cores," says GLaDOS.

Wheatley's raucous laughter resonates throughout the facility—especially in the breaker room.


	27. Prompt 026

**Prompt 026: "Core Wheats finds a wing of Aperture he's never seen before."**

Wheatley relies on his management rail for just about everything. Its importance is invaluable to a robot without limbs or any other means of transporting himself. He's quite grateful for its existence, even if it malfunctions on occasion.

It's not often that it happens. Once in a blue moon, really. Maybe less. He can't exactly remember the last time it malfunctioned, if he's honest. Memory was probably deleted to make room for some new ones. Not that there's anything particularly interesting to make room for. The daily droll of test subject care. Very dull. The only exciting thing in the past several years was the explosion, and even then, there was nothing but power failures afterward.

And—no, never mind. Point is, when it _does_ malfunction, it sends him to places he never means to visit.

"Oh, bloody hell, not again."

Wheatley flinches, handles shifting close to his hull. He tries his best to execute the proper subroutines to signal the contraption that holds him to the management rail to stop, _stop_ for god's sake, bloody _stop_, but it doesn't. He's whisking down the line, past corroding parts in the facility; past catwalks and snaking vines and sputtering machinery and down the wrong sides of forks in the path, and he's thrust onward into the incoming maw of an unlit wing.

The hum of the rail grates into a screech when the emergency brakes engage. It drowns out the cacophony of his terrified shouts as he comes to a halt; the sheer force shakes his chassis.

When he's positive that he's come to a complete and total stop, Wheatley tentatively opens the shutter of his optic.

"Okay," he says, glancing about. "Okay. All right. Good. At least it's stopped. Finally. That's good. Better. Better than still sailing off into who knows where. It's good. A step in the right direction. Right. Well, okay then, let's see what we've got here."

He squints into the billowing dark, but no matter how many commands he issues to sharpen or zoom the feed streaming into his HUD, he can't make anything out. The soft blue of the light in his optic isn't powerful enough to illuminate the place he's been sent, and he dares not switch on his flashlight. He's already in a potentially precarious position; he doesn't want to die.

"All right," says Wheatley. "Darkness. Darkness… everywhere. No lights. Not a one. Oh, maybe that's—oh, nope, no lights. Rather unfortunate. Not a particularly intelligent choice in design. I don't know who hired the architects to build this place, but they did a bloody poor job at it, if I'm honest."

Wheatley tries to move along the rail, but nothing responds. The emergency brakes are doing their job quite admirably. It's a shame their services are no longer required.

"Well, this might be a problem," he says, staring into the dark.

The more he looks about, the more he thinks he might discern sorts of shapes, but he can't be sure. Straining his auditory functions, he realizes that there is a deep, rumbling thrum that encompasses the room. Apprehension creeps into his circuits.

"This wouldn't be so bad if I could see," he murmurs to himself, scrunching back as far as the emergency breaks will allow. "I mean, really, why not give me night vision? Seems like a good idea. Popping around a dark facility for most of the job, why not night vision? Oh, no, no, Wheatley, we can't do that. Too expensive! Not like the bloody power's gone out before or anything. _Management_."

It's then that a spark flickers in the inky black. It's sharp, thin, glowing, and as Wheatley watches from his perch on the management rail, it widens. A series of halogen lights bolted into the ceiling brim bright with white, blinding light.

What he's met with is an open room. There are small tanks that are hooked up to the chrome walls, each attached with wires that coil down from the ceiling. In the center of the room, he notes, stands an absolute _juggernaut_ of a machine, thick and powerful and towering.

Zooming in on one of the tanks, he realizes that there are bodies inside of them. But they're not human bodies, no—they just _look_ human. He can recognize wirework when he sees it: they're being powered by that gargantuan cylindrical structure in the middle. Massive cables run from each tank toward its base, and smaller cables fit into… well, the bodies' arms? Their backs, maybe? His magnification features aren't that precise. He can't be sure. A few of them do look familiar somehow.

Wheatley is sure of one thing, though: these things are robots.

"This isn't android hell, is it? Oh, god. I really hope not. I knew I shouldn't have come this way. Why didn't I listen? Just _had_ to take the short cut back, _had_ to skip past the turrets and all their nonsense—"

"Wheatley!"

"What?" Wheatley spins around only to be greeted with the familiar glow of a green optic. "Oh! Oh, thank god, you're not—okay, look, I didn't mean to come this way, so if anyone asks, I wasn't here. All right? Clear on that? Because the bloody management rail's on the blink again and it just wouldn't _stop_, I tried everything, just kept going and going, and… are… are you in a party escort bot?"

"I borrowed it," says Rick, floating into the chamber. His spherical chassis is planted onto the mechanical body of a party escort bot, complete with party escort claws, party escort torso, and party escort hover… technology? Wheatley has no idea how that works; there are open bits by the legs, and bell-shaped puffs of fire sputter out. "And while we're on the subject of asking, don't mention I did. Wanted to take it for a spin, see how it felt. And let me tell you: it is _im_-_press_-_ive_!"

"Does that mean you're going to get me out of here?" asks Wheatley, appraising Rick's borrowed—or what he assumes is stolen—body. "Because we'll both get in a whole lot of trouble if they find you in that. You know what happened last time."

Rick glances down at the chamber of androids as he draws close to Wheatley. "What kind of craziness did you find in here? Looks important. Big wig stuff. Dangerous, even."

"Oh, no no no, don't even get started on that," says Wheatley. "Just—pick me up, will you? Get us out of here, and no one will ever know what happened."

"Fine, fine," says Rick. "Prepare to disengage, partner. Gonna hit the switch here."

Rick's claws work on the rail, and when the emergency brakes unhinge, he clamps a mechanical hand around Wheatley's hull.

"Ouch!" His HUD jolts with static for a split second before righting itself again. A few errors pop up in one of the data feeds, though he doesn't know why. "Oi, I'm all for grip, but this is—ooh, apply less grip, if you would, just not so you're crunching my—agh—everything and—"

"Quit whining, bucko," says Rick, pulling him from the management rail. "Man's gotta suck it up. Romeo to Foxtrot, we have acquired Whiskey! We're heading out, so hold tight."

"I'm sorry? Hold tight? Are you serious? You're the one with the—well, the hands? I suppose they're hands? Not exactly the safest looking pair of hands, if I'm honest, not my first choice if I had to pick, but—"

"Here we go!"

Rick winds up the bot, twisting about, Wheatley in tow, and lunges down the path of the management rail in a burst of party escort hover technology. Wheatley's shouts echo in the room of slumbering robots, trilling over the hum of the central machine. Behind them, the lights wink out one by one. When all are extinguished, darkness swathes the chamber once more.

In the shifting black, the voice recognition software of a single tank completes its analysis.

The android within awakens.


	28. Prompt 027

**Prompt 027: "Wheatley finds out he's going to be a dad."**

Chell is sick, and Wheatley is afraid.

He's on his knees on the cold bathroom tile, holding back her dark hair. She's beside him, curled in a heap by the toilet, shivering and exhausted and utterly spent. He's tried to pick her up, tried to carry her to the bed, the couch, somewhere she can rest, but she's only shoved his arms away and locked her legs around the toilet's white porcelain base. She refuses to move, and he doesn't know why.

This is nothing like a common cold. Wheatley knows because she's had those before. Sniffles and coughs don't faze her. Sure, she might have some soup or take a painkiller or two, but she always powers through, business as usual. She's never been like this before. Never.

"Can I get you anything?" he asks, his free hand rubbing the small of her back. "Feeling pretty helpless here. And concerned. A lot of concern. Maybe a wet cloth for your head? Or some water? Or… no, maybe not water. You might—well, might throw it up again. Eugh." He wrinkles his nose at the prospect. No matter how much time he's spent in a human body, he will never be completely okay with bodily excretions. "But it could make you feel better, you know? Always a chance. A possibility. When you're not… um. Vomiting."

Chell only shakes her head and leans forward. Wheatley massages the muscles in her back and tries his best to block out the retching sounds with a grimace.

It's a few days of these episodes until Wheatley convinces her to go to the doctor. After a particularly bad spell, her obstinacy lets up, and she finally agrees. His argument is when you can barely keep the essentials in your belly, it's time to get some help.

"All right. Easy now. I've got you, love. Up you go."

Chell leans on him as she climbs out of the car. She cinches an arm around his middle and buries her face into his shirt, and when they begin their trek across the parking lot under the noonday sun, he notices that her steps are shaking when her trainers hit the pavement.

Wheatley has never seen her so weak. Then again, she's severely dehydrated and hasn't been able to eat a proper meal in days. Anyone in her situation would be knocked down a few pegs. He knows he would be far, far worse.

The waiting room is a nice little place. White painted walls, maple wood tables splayed with magazines. Wheatley gathers the clipboards and paperwork from the receptionist while Chell finds a place to sit among the aluminum chairs dressed in geometric patterns and purple cushions. As he sits down beside her, he feels her head loll against his shoulder, nose nuzzling into the fabric of his shirt. His heart knots pleasantly behind his breastbone and he leans over to kiss her forehead.

When they call her back, Chell follows the doctor alone. Wheatley wants to be with her; he wants to know what's wrong, wants to know what's happening, but there is a sinking feeling between his ribs that he would only be in the way, and so he remains in the waiting room and watches the door meet the frame and the bronze knob twist shut.

Wheatley fidgets without her presence. He takes to flipping through the magazines, glancing at the pictures and the colorful words printed in bold fonts. He cleans his glasses on the hem of his shirt and tangles his fingers amongst themselves in worry. The hands of the clock on the wall tick by, far too slow, and he wishes more than ever that he'd asked to accompany her.

Thirty minutes pass, and the door creaks open.

"Wheatley?" says a nurse, peering out.

"Oh! Yes, that's me, I'm Wheatley," he says, scrambling from his seat. "Is she all right? She is, isn't she? Please tell me she is."

The nurse nods, beckoning him beyond the door with a flick of her hand.

Wheatley joins Chell in the examination room. It's plastered with posters illustrating the spine, the eye, and the structures of the inner ear. She hops off the table and engulfs him in a voracious hug.

"Oof," he grunts, circling his arms around her. "All right, little less grip, can't—haah—okay—right, that's better, okay, thank you." Wheatley draws in a deep breath, savoring her closeness, and gently rubs down her backbone. "So what's the matter then? What happened? What did they say? You are okay, aren't you? I—well, I hope so. I've been worried. As you could probably tell. Ha, I mean, I never really shut up about it. Just want you to be all right."

Chell pulls away, and although there is a warm, definite smile upon her mouth, what he notices is the tears in the crescents of her eyes.

"Whoa, hey, what's wrong?" Wheatley bends down, bony hands framing her face. His thumbs brush at the corners, soaking away the wetness. "Why are you crying? What happened? It's all right, you can tell me. Well, if you don't, that's fine, but I just—I'm here, okay? I'm here."

Still grinning, wider now, she clasps her hand over one of his. The heat from her palm seeps into him and she guides him down to rest against her lower belly.

"I'm sorry," says Wheatley, knitting his brow. "I don't understand. What's that mean?"

Chell bites into her lower lip, staring at him with pale blue eyes. She looks weary and weak; her hair is disheveled, untucked strands by her temples, charcoal half-moons sketched beneath her eyes, a subtle slump in posture. But there is strength there, he knows there is; she can overcome anything.

"You," she murmurs, soft and quiet, a delicate melody, barely there, "are going to be a father."

He's never used to the shock of her voice, _never_, but god, her _words_—

Wheatley sinks to the floor, hands against her stomach, stunned. "So you mean—I'm—no, we're—we'll be parents then? The both of us? Really?"

Chell nods as her fingers entwine with his hair.

There is a moment of tight clarity, a portrait of what could be: a little wisp of a thing, brunet and blue-eyed, an amalgam of Chell's softer features and his sharp cheekbones, a tiny body that might yet grow into his towering height.

In a whirl, Wheatley sweeps her off her feet. He hooks an arm beneath her legs and the other behind her back, drawing her against the fluttering joy his chest. He's not sure where the tears are coming from, wet and cold and sliding down his face, but he nuzzles into her, laughing, forehead pressed close.

For once, he's speechless. And in the best of ways.


End file.
